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This Work was first published in the year 1837. 





The family of Armine entered England with William the 
Norman. Balpli d'Ermjn was standard-bearer of the Con- 
qneror, and shared prodigally in the plunder, as appears by 
Doomsday Book. At the time of the general snrvey the 
family of Ermyn, or Armyn, possessed numerous manors in 
Nottinghamshire, and several in the shire of Lincoln. 
"William D'Armyn, lord of the honour of Armyn, was one 
of the subscribing Barons to the Great Charter. His pre- 
decessor died in the Holy Land before Ascalon. A succes- 
sion of stout barons and valiant knights maintained the high 
fortunes of the fiunily ; and in the course of the various 
struggles with France they obtained possession of several 
fair castles in Gnienne and Gascony. Li the wars of the 
Eoses the Armyns sided with the house of Lancaster. 
Ferdinand Armyn, who shared the exile of Henry the 
Seventh, was knighted on Bosworth Fi^d, and soon after 
created Earl of Tewkesbury. Faithful to the Church, the 
second Lord Tewkesbury became involved in one of those 
numerous risings that harasse4 the last years of Henry the 



Eighth. The rebellion was unsticcessful, Lord Tewkesbury 
was beheaded, his blood attainted, and his numerous estates 
forfeited to the Crown. A younger branch of the family, 
who had adopted Protestantism, married the daughter of 
Sir Francis Walsingham, and attracted, by his talents in 
negotiation, the notice of Queen Elizabeth. He was sent 
on a secret mission to the Low Countries, where, having 
greatly distinguished himself, he obtained on his return the 
restoration of the family estate of Armine, in Nottingham- 
shire, to which he retired after an eminently prosperous 
career, and amused the latter years of his life in the con- 
struction of a family mansion, built in that national style 
of architecture since described by the name of his royal 
mistress, at once magnificent and convenient. His son, Sir 
Walsingham Armine figured in the first batch of baronets 
under James the First. 

During the memorable struggle between the Crown and 
the Commons, in the reign of the unhappy Charles, the 
Armine family became distinguished Cavaliers. The second 
Sir Walsingham raised a troop of horse, and gained great 
credit by charging at the head of his regiment and defeat- 
ing Sir Arthur Haselrigg's Cuirassiers. It was the first 
time that that impenetrable band had been taught to fly ; 
but the conqueror was covered with wounds. The same 
Sir Walsingham also successfally defended Armine House 
against the Commons, and commanded the cavalry at the 
battle of Newbury, where two of his brothers were slain. 
For these various services and sufferings Sir Walsingham 
was advanced to the dignity of a baron of the realm, by the 
title of Lord Armine, of Armine, in the county of Notting- 
ham. He died without issue, but the baronetcy devolved 
on his youngest brother. Sir Ferdinando. 

The Armine family, who had relapsed into popery, fol- 
lowed the fortunes of the second James, and the head of the 
house died at St. Germain. His son, however, had been 


prudent enotigli to remfiiin in England and support the new 
dynasty, by wHcli means lie contrived to secure liis title 
and estates. Boman Catholics, however, the Armines al- 
ways remained, and this circumstance accounts for this 
once-distinguished family no longer figuring in the history 
of their country. So fiir, therefore, as the house of Armine 
was concerned, time flew during the next century with im- 
memorable wing. The family led a secluded life on their 
estate, intermarrying only with the great Catholic families, 
and duly begetting baronets. 

At length arose, in the person of the last Sir Ferdinand 
Armine, one of those extraordinary and rarely gifted beings 
who require only an opportunity to influence the fortunes 
of their nation, and to figure as a Cassar or an Alcibiades. 
Beauti^l, brilliant, and ambitious, the young and restless 
Armine quitted, in his eighteenth year, the house of his 
fathers, and his stepdame of a country, and entered the 
Imperial service. His blood and creed gained him a 
flattering reception; his skill and valour soon made him 
distinguished. The world rang with stories of his romantic 
bravery, his gallantries, his eccentric manners, and his 
political intrigues, for he nearly contrived to be elected 
King of Poland. Whether it were disgust at being foiled 
in this high object by the influence of Austria, or whether, 
as was much whispered at the time, he had dared to urge 
his insolent and unsuccessfcd suit on a still more delicate 
subject to the Empress Queen herself, certain it is that Sir 
Ferdinand suddenly quitted the Imperial service, and ap- 
peared at Constantinople in person. The man, whom a 
point of honour prevented from becoming a Protestant in 
his native country, had no scruples about his profession of 
faith at Stamboul : certain it is that the English baronet 
soon rose high in the favour of the Sultan, assumed the 
Turkish dress, conformed to the Turkish customs, and 
finally, led against Austria a division of the Turkish army. 

B 2 


Having gratified liis pique by defeating the Imperial forces 
in a sanguinary engagement, and obtaining a favourable 
peace for the Porte, Sir Ferdinand Armine doffed his tur- 
ban, and suddenly reappeared in his native country. After 
the sketch we have given of the last ten years of his life, it 
is unnecessary to observe that Sir Ferdinand Airmine im- 
mediately became what is called fashionable ; and, as he 
was now in Protestant England, the empire of fashion 
was the only one in which the young Catholic could dis- 
tinguish himself. Let us then charitably set down to the 
score of his political disabilities the fantastic dissipation and 
the frantic prodigality in which the liveliness of his imagi- 
nation and the energy of his soul exhausted themselves. 
Afber three startling years he married the Lady Barbara 
Batcliffe, whose previous divorce from her husband, the 
Earl of Faulconville, Sir Ferdinand had occasioned. He 
was, however, separated from his lady during the first year 
of their more hallowed union, and, retiring to Bome, Sir 
Ferdinand became apparently devout. At the end of 
a year he offered to transfer the whole of his property to 
the Church, provided the Pope would allow him an annuity 
and make him a cardinal. His Holiness not deeming it fit 
to consent to the proposition. Sir Ferdinand quitted his 
capital in a huff, and, returning to England, laid claim to 
the peerages of Tewkesbury and Armine. Although assured 
of failing in these claims, and himself perhaps as certain of 
ill success as his lawyers. Sir Ferdinand nevertheless ex- 
pended upwards of 60,000Z. in their promotion, and was 
amply repaid for the expenditure in the gratification of his 
vanity by keeping his name before the public. He was 
never content except when he was astonishing mankind ; 
and while he was apparently exerting all his efforts to be- 
come a King of Poland, a Eoman cardinal, or an English 
peer, the croyni, the coronet, and the scarlet hat were in 
truth ever secondary points with him, compared to the sen- 


sation throughotit Europo wHcli the eflfort was contrived 
and calculated to ensure. 

On his second return to his native country Sir Ferdinand 
had not re-entered society. For such a man, society, with 
all its superficial excitement, and all the shadowy variety 
with which it attempts to cloud the essential monotony of 
its nature, was intolerably dull and commonplace. Sir 
Ferdinand, on the contrary, shut himself up in Armine, 
having previously announced to the world that he was 
going to write his memoirs. This history, the construction 
of a castle, and the prosecution of his claims before the 
House of Lords, apparently occupied his time to his satis- 
faction, for he remained quiet for several years, until, on 
the breaking out of the French Revolution, he hastened to 
Paris, became a member of the Jacobin Club, and of the 
National Convention. The name of Citizen Armine appears 
among the regicides. Perhaps in this vote he avenged the 
loss of the crown of Poland, and the still more mortifying 
repulse he may have received from the mother of Marie 
Antoinette. After the execution of the royal victims, how- 
ever, it was discovered that Citizen Armine had made them 
an offer to save their lives and raise an insurrection in La 
Vendue, provided he was made Lieutenant-general of the 
kingdom. At his trial, which, from the nature of the accu- 
sation and the character of the accused, occasioned to his 
gratification a great sensation, he made no effort to defend 
himself, but seemed to glory in the chivalric crime. He 
was hurried to the guillotine, and met his fate with the 
greatest composure, assuring the public with a mysterious 
air, that had he lived four-and-twenty hours longer every- 
thing would have been arranged, and the troubles which he 
foresaw impending for Europe prevented. So successfully 
had Armine played his part, that his mysterious and doubt- 
ftd career occasioned a controversy, from which only the 
appearance of Napoleon distracted universal attention, and 


which, indeed, only wholly ceased within these few years. 
What were his intentions ? Was he or was he not a sincere 
Jacobin ? If he made the oflfer to the royal family, why 
did he vote for their death ? Was he resolved, at all events, 
to be at the head of one of the parties ? A middle conrse 
would not suit such a man ; and so on. Interminable were 
the queries and their solutions, the pamphlets and the 
memoirs, which the conduct of this vain man occasioned, 
and which must assuredly have appeased his manes. He- 
cently it has been discovered that the charge brought 
against Armine was perfectly false and purely malicious. 
Its victim, however, could not resist the dazzling celebrity 
of the imaginary crime, and he preferred the reputation of 
closing his career by conduct which at once perplexed and 
Bfltonished mankind, to a vindication wHch would have 
deprived his name of some brilliant accessories, and spared 
him to a life of which he was perhaps wearied. 

By the unhappy victim of his vanity and passion Sir 
Ferdinand Armine left one child, a son, whom he had never 
seen, now Sir Batcliffe. Brought up in sadness and in 
seclusion, education had faithfully developed the charac- 
teristics of a reserved and melancholy mind. Pride of line- 
age and sentiments of religion, which even in early youth 
darkened into bigotry, were not incompatible with strong 
affections, a stem sense of duty, and a spirit of chivalrio 
honour. Limited in capacity, he was, however, firm in 
purpose. Trembling at the name of his father, and devoted 
to the unhappy parent whose presence he had scarcely ever 
quitted, a word of reproach had never escaped his lips 
against the chieftain of his blood, and one, too, whose career, 
how little soever his child could sympathise with it, still 
maintained, in men's mouths and minds, the name and 
memory of the house of Armine. At the death of his father 
Sir Ratcliffe had just attained his majority, and he succeeded 
to immense estates encumbered with mortgages, and to con- 


siderable debts, wHch. his feelings of honour would have 
compelled him to discharge, had they indeed been enforced 
by no other claim. The estates of the family, on their 
restoration, had not been entailed ; but, until Sir Ferdinand 
no head of the house had abused the confidence of his an- 
cestors, and the vast possessions of the house of Armine 
had descended unimpaired ; and unimpaired, so far as he 
was concerned. Sir Batcliffe determined they should remain. 
Although, by the sale of the estates, not only the encum- 
brances and liabilities might have been discharged, but 
himself left in possession of a moderate, independence, Sir 
Eatcliffe at once resolved to part with nothing. Fresh 
sums were raised for the payment of the debts, and the 
mortgages now consumed nearly the whole rental of the 
lands on which they were secured. Sir Batclifie obtained 
for himself only an annuity of three hundred per annum, 
which he presented to his mother, in addition to the small 
portion which she had received on her first marriage ; and 
for himself, visiting 'Armine Place for the first time, he 
roamed for a few days with sad complacency about that 
magnificent demesne, and then, taking down from the walls 
of the magnificent hall the sabre with which his father had 
defeated the Imperial host, he embarked for Cadiz, and 
shortly after his arrival obtained a commission in the Spanish 


Although the hereditary valour of the Armines had de- 
scended to their forlorn representative, it is not probable 
that, under any circumstances, Sir RatcHfie would have 
risen to any eminence in the country of his tempo- 
rary adoption. His was not one of those minds bom to 
command and to create ; and his temper was too proud to 
serve and to solicit. His residence in Spain, however, was 
not altogether without satisfaction. It was during this 
sojourn that he gained the little knowledge of life and 
hximan nature he possessed; and the creed and solemn 


manners of the land harmonised with his faith and habits. 
Among these strangers, too, the proud young Englishman 
felt not so keenly the degradation of his house ; and some- 
times, though his was not the fatal gifb of imagination^ 
sometimes he indulged in day dreams of its rise. Unprac- 
tised in business, and not gifted with that intuitive quick- 
ness which supplies experience and often baffles it, BatclifiPe 
Armine, who had not quitted the domestic hearth even for 
the purposes of educatibn, was yet fortunate enough to 
possess a devoted friend; and this was Glastonbury, his 
tutor, and confessor to his mother. It was to him that Sir 
Katcliffe intrusted the management of his affairs, with a 
confidence which was deserved; for Glastonbury sympa- 
thised with all his feelings, and was so wrapped up in the 
glory of the family, that he had no greater ambition in life 
than to become their historiographer, and had been for years 
employed in amassing materials for a great work dedicated 
to their celebrity. 

When Ratcliffe Armine had been absent aix)ut three years 
his mother died. Her death was unexpected. She had not 
fulfilled two-thirds of the allotted period of the Psalmist, 
and in spite of many sorrows she was still beautiful. Glas- 
tonbury, who communicated to him the intelligence in a 
letter, in which he vainly attempted to suppress his own 
overwhelming affliction, counselled his immediate return to 
England, if but for a season ; and the unhappy Ratcliffe 
followed his advice. By the death of his mother. Sir 
Ratcliffe Armine became possessed, for the first time, of «, 
small but still an independent income; and having paid 
a visit, soon after his return to his native country, to a 
Catholic nobleman to whom his acquaintance had been of 
some use when travelling in Spain, he became enamoured 
of one of his daughters, and his passion being returned, and 
not disapproved by the father, he was soon after married to 
Constance, the eldest daughter of Lord Grandison. 




After his marriage Sir Batcliffe determined to reside at 
Armine. In one of the largest parks in England there yet 
remained a fragment of a vast Elizabethan pile, that in old 
days bore the name of Airmine Place. When Sir Ferdinand 
had commenced building Armine Castle, he had pnlled down 
the old mansion, partly for the sake of its site and partly 
for the sake of its materials. Long lines of turreted and 
many-vmidowed walls, tall towers, and lofty arches, now 
rose in picturesque confusion on the green ascent where 
heretofore old Sir Walsingham had raised the fair and con- 
venient dwelling, which he justly deemed might have served 
the purpose of a long posterity. The hall and chief stair- 
case of the castle and a gallery alone were finished ; and 
many a day had Sir Ferdinand passed in arranging the 
pictures, the armour, and choice rarities of these magnifi- 
cent apartments. The rest of the building was a mere 
shell ; nor was it in all parts even roofed in. Heaps of 
bricks and stone and piles of timber appeared in every 
direction ; and traces of the sudden stoppage of a great 
work might be observed in the temporary saw-pits still 
remaining, the sheds for the workmen, and tbe kilns and 
furnaces, which never had been removed. Time, however, 
that had stained the neglected towers with an antique tint, 
and had permitted many a generation of summer birds to 
build their sunny nests on all the coignes of vantage of 
the unfinished walls, had exercised a mellowing influence 
even on these rude accessories, and in the course of years 
they had been so drenched by the rain, and so buffeted by 
the wind, and had become so covered with moss and ivy, 
that they rather added to than detracted from the pic- 
turesque character of the whole mass. 


A few hundred yards from tlie castle, but situate on the 
same verdant rising ground, and commanding, although 
well sheltered, an extensive view over the wide park, was 
the fragment of the old Place that we have noticed. The 
rough and undulating rent which marked the severance of 
the building was now thickly covered with ivy, which in 
its gamesome luxuriance had contrived also to climb up a 
remaining stack of tall chimneys, and to spread over the 
covering of the large oriel window. This fragment con- 
tained a set of pleasant chambers, which, having been 
occupied by the late baronet, were of course furnished with 
great taste and comfort ; and there was, moreover, accom- 
modation sufficient for a small establishment. Armine 
Place, before Sir Ferdinand, unfortunately for his descend- 
ants, determined in the eighteenth century on building a 
feudal castle, had been situate in famous pleasure-grounds, 
which extended at the back of the mansion over a space 
of some hundred acres. The grounds in the immediate 
vicinity of the buildings had of course suffered severely, 
but the far greater portion had only been neglected ; and 
there were some indeed who deemed, as they wandered 
throagh the arbour- walks of this enchanting wilderness, 
that its beauty had been enhanced even by this very neg- 
lect. It seemed like a forest in a beautiftil romance ; a 
green and bowery wilderness where Boccaccio would have 
loved to woo, and Watteau to paint. So artfully had the 
walks been planned, that they seemed interminable, nor 
was there a single point in the whole pleasaunce where 
the keenest eye could have detected a limit. Sometimes 
you wandered in those arched and winding walks dear to 
pensive spirits ; sometimes you emerged on a plot of turf 
blazing in the sunshine, a small and bright savannah, and 
gazed with wonder on the group of black and mighty 
cedars that rose from its centre, with their sharp and 
spreading foliage. The beautiful and the vast blended 


together ; and tlie moment after yon had beheld with de- 
light a bed of geraniums or of myrtles, yon found yourself 
in an amphitheatre of Italian pines. A strange exotic per- 
fdme filled the air : you trod on the flowers of other lands ; 
and shrubs and plants, that usually are only trusted firom 
their conservatories, like sultanas from their jalousies, to 
sniff the air and recall their bloom, here learning from hard- 
ship the philosophy of endurance, had struggled success- 
fully even against northern winters, and wantoned now 
in native and nnpruned luxuriance. Sir Ferdinand, when 
he resided at Armine, was accustomed to fill these pleasure- 
groxmds with macaws and other birds of gorgeous plumage ; 
but these had fled away with their master, all but some 
swans which stOl floated on the surface of a lake, which 
marked the centre of this paradise. 

In the remains of the ancient seat of his fathers. Sir 
Batcliffe Armine and his bride now sought a home. The 
principal chamber of Armine Place was a large irregular 
room, with a low but richly-carved oaken roof, studded 
with achievements. This apartment was lighted by the 
oriel window we have mentioned, the upper panes of which 
contained some ancient specimens of painted glass, and 
having been fitted up by Sir Ferdinand as a library, con- 
tained a collection of valuable books. From the library 
you entered through an arched door of glass into a small 
room, of which, it being much out of repair when the 
&mily arrived. Lady Armine had seized the opportunity of 
gratifying her taste in the adornment. She had hung it 
with some old-fashioned pea-green damask, that exhibited 
to advantage several copies of Spanish paintings by her- 
self, for she was a skilful artist. The third and remain- 
ing chamber was the dining-room, a somewhat gloomy 
chamber, being shadowed by a neighbouring chestnut. A 
portrait of Sir Ferdinand, when a youth, in a Venetian 
dress, was suspended over the old-fashioned fireplace ; and 


opposite iLnng a fine huntmg piece by Scbiieidei*s. Ladj 
Armine was an amiable and accomplished woman. She 
had enjoyed the advantage of a foreign education nnder 
the inspection of a cautious parent : and a residence on the 
Continent, while it had afforded her many graces, had not, 
as unfortunately sometimes is the case, divested her of 
those more substantial though less showy qualities of which 
a husband kijows the value. She was pious and dutiM : her 
manners were graceful, for she had visited courts and 
mixed in polished circles, but she had fortunately not 
learnt to affect insensibility as a system, or to believe that 
the essence of good breeding consists in showing your 
fellow-creatures that you despise them. Her cheerful 
temper solaced the constitutional gloom of Sir Ratcliffe, 
and indeed had originally won his heart, even more than 
her remarkable beauty: and while at the same time she 
loved a country life, she possessed in a lettered taste, in a 
beautiful and highly cultivated voice, and in a scientific 
knowledge of music and of painting, all those resources 
which prevent retirement from degenerating into loneliness. 
Her foibles, if we must confess that she was not faultless, 
endeared her to her husband, for her temper reflected his 
own pride, and she possessed the taste for splendour which 
was also his native mood, although circumstances had com- 
pelled him to stifle its gratification. 

Love, pure and profound, had alone prompted the union 
between Ratcliffe Armine and Constance Grandison. Doubt- 
less, like all of her race, she might have chosen amid the 
wealthiest of the Catholic nobles and gentry one who would 
have been proud to have mingled his life with hers ; but, 
with a soul not insensiblAto the splendid accidents of exist- 
ence, she yielded her heart to one who could repay the rich 
sacrifice only with devotion. His poverty, his pride, his 
dangerous and hereditary gift of beauty, his mournful life, 
his illustrious lineage, his reserved and romantic mind, had 


at once attracted lier fancy and captivated her heart. She 
shared all his aspirations and sympathised with all his 
hopes ; and the old glory of the honse of Armine, and its 
revival and restoration, were the object of her daily 
thonghts, and often of her nightly dreams. 

With these feelings Lady Armine settled herself at her 
new home, scarcely with a pang that the whole of the park 
in which she lived was let out as grazing ground, and only 
trusting, as she beheld the groups of ruminating cattle, that 
the day might yet come for the antlered tenants of the bowers 
to resume their shady dwellings. The good man and his 
wife who hitherto had inhabited the old Place, and shown 
the castle and the pleasaunce to passing travellers, were, 
under the new order of affairs, promoted to the respective 
offices of serving-man and cook, or butler and housekeeper, 
as they styled themselves in the village. A maiden brought 
from Grandison to wait on Lady Armine completed the 
establishment, with her young brother, who, among nu- 
merous duties, performed the office of groom, and attended 
to a pair of beautiful white ponies which Sir Batclifife drove 
in a phaeton. This equipage, which was remarkable for its 
elegance, was the especial delight of Lady Armine, and cer- 
tainly the only piece of splendour in which Sir Batcliffe 
indulged. As for neighbourhood, Sir Batcliffe, on his arrival, 
of course received a visit from the rector of his parish, and, 
by the courteous medium of this gentleman, he soon occa- 
sioned it to be generally understood that he was not anxious 
that the example of his rector should be followed. The 
intimation, in spite of much curiosity, was of course respected. 
Nobody called upon the Armines. This happy couple, however, 
were too much engrossed with their own society to require 
amusement from any other sources than themselves. The 
honeymoon was passed in wandering in the pleasure-grounds, 
and in wondering at their own marvellous happiness. Then 
Lady Armine would sit on a green bank and sing her choicest 


songs, and Sir Batcliffe repaid lier for her kindness bj 
speeches softer even than serenades. The arrangement of 
their dwelling occupied the second month ; each day wit- 
nessed some felicitous yet economical alteration of her 
creative taste. The third month Lady Armine determined 
to make a garden. 

' I wish,' said her affectionate husband, as he toiled with 
delight in her service, 'I wish, my dear Constance, that 
Glastonbury was here ; he was such a capital gardener.' 

' Let us ask him, dear Batcliffe ; and, perhaps, for such a 
friend we have already allowed too great a space of time to 
elapse without sending an invitation.' 

* Why, we are ho happy,' said Sir Batcliffe, smiling ; * and 
yet Glastonbury is the best creature in the world. I hope 
you wiU hke him, dear Constance.' 

' I am sure I shall, dear Batcliffe. Give me that geranium, 
love. Write to him to-day; write to Glastonbury to-day.' 



Adrian Glastonbury was a younger son of an old but de- 
cayed English family. He had been educated at a college 
of Jesuits in France, and had entered at an early period of 
life the service of the Eomish Church, whose communion 
his feunily had never quitted. At college young Glastonbury 
had been alike distinguished for his assiduous talents and 
for the extreme benevolence of his disposition. His was 
one of those minds to which refinement is natural, and 
which learning and experience never deprive of simplicity. 
Apparently his passions were not violent; perhaps they 
were restrained by his profound piety. Next to his devotion, 
Glastonbury was most remarkable for his taste. The mag- 


nificent temples in whicli tlie mysteries of the Deity and 
saints lie worshipped were celebrated, developed the latent 
predisposition for the beantifal, which became almost the 
master. sentiment of his life. In the inspired and inspiring 
paintings that crowned the altars of the churches and the 
cathedrals in which he ministered, Glastonbury first studied 
art ; and it was as he glided along the solemn shade of those 
Gk)thic aisles, gazing on the brave groining of the vaulted 
roofs, whose deep and sublime shadows so beautiftdly con- 
trasted with the sparkling shrines and the delicate chantries 
below, that he first imbibed that passion for the architecture 
of the middle ages that afterwards led him on many a plea- 
sant pilgrimage with no better companions than a wallet 
and a sketch-book. Indeed, so sensible was Glastonbury of 
the influence of the early and constant scene of his youth 
on his imagination, that he was wont to trace his love of 
heraldry, of which he possessed a remarkable knowledge, to 
the emblazoned windows that perpetuated the memory and 
the achievements of many a pious founder. 

When Glastonbury was about twenty-one years of age, he 
unexpectedly inherited from an uncle a sum which, though 
by no means considerable, was for him a sufficient indepen- 
dence ; and as no opening in the service of the Church at 
this moment offered itself, which he considered it a duty to 
pursue, he determined to gratify that restless feeling which 
seems inseparable from the youth of men gifted with fine 
sensibilities, and which probably arises in an unconscious 
desire to quit the common-place and to discover the ideal. 
He wandered on foot throughout the whole of Switzerland 
and Italy; and, after more than three years' absence, returned 
to England with several thousand sketches, and a complete 
Alpine Hortus Siccus. He was even more proud of the latter 
than of having kissed the Pope's toe. In the next seven 
years the life of Glastonbury was nearly equally divided be- 
tween the duties of his sacred profession and the gratification 


of his simplb and elegant tastes. He resided principally in 
Lancashire, where he became librarian to a Catholic noble- 
man of the highest rank, whose notice he had first attracted 
by publishing a description of his grace's residence, illus- 
trated by his drawings. The duke, who was a man of fine 
taste and antiquarian pursuits, and an exceedingly bene- 
volent person, sought Glastonbury's acquaintance in conse- 
quence of the publication, and from that moment a close 
and cherished intimacy subsisted between, them. 

In the absence of the family, however, Glastonbury found 
time for many excursions ; by means of which he at last 
completed drawings of all our cathedrals. There remained for 
him still the abbeys and the minsters of the "West of England, 
a subject on which he was ever eloquent. Glastonbury 
performed all these excursions on foot, armed only with an 
ashen staff which he had cut in his early travels, and 
respecting which he was superstitious; so that he would 
have no more thought of journeying without this stick than 
most other people without their hat. Indeed, to speak truth, 
Glastonbury has been known to quit a house occasionally 
without that necessary appendage, for, from living much 
alone, he was not a little absent; but instead of piquing 
himself on such eccentricities, they ever occasioned him mor- 
tification. Yet Glastonbury was an universal favourite, and 
ever a welcome guest. In his joameys he had no want of 
hosts ; for there was not a Catholic family which would not 
have been hurt had he passed them without a visit. He 
was indeed a rarely accomplished personage. An admirable 
scholar and profound antiquary, he possessed also a consi- 
derable practical knowledge of the less severe sciences, was 
a fine artist, and no contemptible musician. His pen, too, 
was that of a ready writer ; if his sonnets be ever published, 
they will rank among the finest in our literature. 

Glastonbury was about thirty when he was induced by 
Lady Barbara Armine to quit a roof where he had passed 


some happy years, and to undertake the education of her 
son Ratcliffe, a child of eight years of age. From this time 
Glastonbury in a great degree withdrew himself from his 
former connexions, and so completely iabandoned his previous 
mode of life, that he never quitted his new home. His pupil 
repaid him for his zeal rather by the goodness of his dis- 
position and his unblemished conduct, than by any remark- 
able brilliancy of talents or acquirements: but Eatcliffe, 
and particularly his mother, were capable of appreciating 
Glastonbury ; and certain it is, whatever might be the cause, 
he returned their sympathy with deep emotion, for every 
thought and feeling of his existence seemed dedicated to 
their happiness and prosperity. 

So great indeed was the shock which he experienced at 
the unexpected death of Lady Barbara, that for some time 
he meditated assuming the cowl ; and if the absence of his 
pupil prevented the accomplishment of this project, the 
plan was only postponed, not abandoned. The speedy mar- 
riage of Sir Ratcliffe followed. Circumstances had prevented 
Glastonbury &om being present at the ceremony. It was 
impossible for him to retire to the cloister without seeing 
his pupil. Business, if not affection, rendered an interview 
between them necessary. It was equally impossible for 
Glastonbury to trouble a bride and bridegroom with his 
presence. "When, however, three months had elapsed, he 
began to believe that he might venture to propose a meeting 
to Sir Ratcliffe ; but while he was yet meditating on this 
step, he was anticipated by the receipt of a letter containing 
a warm, invitation to Armine. 

It was a beautiful sunshiny afternoon in June. Lady 
Armine was seated in' front of the Place looking towards 
the park, and busied with her work ; while Sir Ratcliffe, 
stretched on the grass, was reading to her the last poem of 
Scott, which they had just received from the neighbouring 


* Ratcliffe, my dear,' said Lady Armine, * some one ap- 

*A tramper, Constance ?' 

* No, no, my love ; rise ; it is a gentleman.' 

' Wlio can it be ? ' said Sir Ratcliflfe, rising ; ' perhaps it is 
yonr brother, love. Ah ! no, it is, it is Glastonbmy ! * 

And at these words he ran forward, jnmped over the iron 
hnrdle which separated their lawn from the park, nor stopt 
his qnick pace until he reached a middle-aged man of very 
prepossessing appearance, though certainly not unsullied by 
the dust, for assuredly the guest had travelled far and long. 

* My dear Glastonbury,' exclaimed Sir Batcliffe, embracing 
him, and speaking under the influence of an excitement in 
which he rarely indulged, * I am the happiest fellow alive. 
How do you do ? I wiU introduce you to Constance directly. 
She is dying to know you, and quite prepared to love you 
as much as myself. ! my dear Glastonbury, you have no 
idea how happy I am. She is a perfect angel.' 

* I am sure of it,' said Glastonbury, seriously. 

Sir Katcliffe hurried his tutor along. * Here is my best 
Mend, Constance,' he eagerly exclaimed. Lady Armine 
rose and welcomed Mr. Glastonbury very cordially. * Your 
presence, my dear sir, has, I assure you, been long desired 
by both of us,' she said, with a dehghtfol smile. 

* No compliments, beheve me,' added Sir Eatcliffe ; * Con- 
stance never pays compliments. She fixed upon your own 
room herself. She always calls it Mr. Glastonbury's room.' 

* Ah ! madam,' said Mr. Glastonbury, laying his hand very 
gently on the shoulder of Sir Ratcliffe, and meaning to say 
something felicitous, * I know this dear youth well ; and I 
have always thought whoever could claim this heart should 
be counted a very fortunate woman.' 

'And such the possessor esteems herself,' replied Lady 
Armine with a smile. 

Sir Ratcliffe, after a quarter of an hour or so had passed 


in conversation, said : * Come, Glastonbury, yon have arrived 
at a good time, for dinner is at hand. Let me sliow yon to 
yonr room. I fear yon have had a hot day's journey. 
Thank God, we are together again. Give me your staff ; I 
will take care of it ; no fear of that. So, this way. You 
have seen the old Place before ? Take care of that step. I 
say, Constance,' said Sir Ratcliffe, in a suppressed voice, 
and running back to his wife, * how do you like him ? ' 

* Very much indeed.' 

* But do you really ? ' 
' ReaUy, truly.' 

'Angel ! ' exclaimed the gratified Sir Ratcliffe. 



Life is adventurous. Events are perpetually occurring, 
even in the calmness of domestic existence, which change 
in an instant the whole train and tenor of our thoughts and 
feelings, and often materially influence our fortunes and our 
character. It is strange, and sometimes as profitable as it 
is singular, to recall our state on the eve of some acquaint- 
ance which transfigures our being ; with some man whose 
philosophy revolutionises our mind ; with some woman 
whose charms metamorphose our career. These retro- 
spective meditations are firuitfal of self-knowledge. 

The visit of Glastonbury was one of those incidents 
which, from the unexpected results that they occasion, 
swell into events. He had not been long a guest at Armine 
before Sir Ratcliffe and his lady could not refrain from 
mutually communicating to each other the gratification 
they should feel could Glastonbury be induced to cast his 

lot among them. His benevolent and placid temper, his 

c 2 


many accomplishments, and the entire affection which ho 
evidently entertained for everybody that bore the name, 
and for everything that related to the fortunes of Armine, 
all pointed him out as a friend alike to be cherished and 
to be valued. Under his auspices the garden of the fair 
Constance soon flourished: his taste guided her pencil, 
and his voice accompanied her lute. Sir Ratcliffe, too, 
thoroughly enjoyed his society : Glastonbury was with him 
the only link, in life, between the present and the past. 
They talked over old times together ; and sorrowful recol- 
lections lost half their bitterness, from the tenderness of his 
sympathetic reminiscences. Sir Ratcliffe, too, was conscious 
of the value of such a companion for his gifted wife. , And 
Glastonbury, moreover, among his many accomplishments, 
had the excellent quality of never being in the way. He 
was aware that young people, and especially young lovers, 
are not averse sometimes to being alone ; and his friends, in 
his absence, never felt that he was neglected, because his 
/ pursuits were so various and his resources so numerous 
that they were sure he was employed and amused. 

In the pleasaunce of Armine, at the termination of a long 
turfen avenue of purple beeches, there was a turreted gate, 
flanked by round towers, intended by Sir Ferdinand for one 
of the principal entrances of his castle. Over the gate were 
small but convenient chambers, to which you ascended by 
a winding staircase in one of the towers ; the other was a 
mere shell. It was sunset ; the long vista gleamed in the 
dying rays, that shed also a rich breadth of light over the 
bold and baronial arch. Our friends had been examining 
the chambers, and Lady Armine, who was a little wearied 
by the exertion, stood opposite the building, leaning on her 
husband and his friend. 

* A man might go far, and find a worse dwelling than 
that portal,* said Glastonbury, musingly. *Methinks life 
might glide away pleasantly enough in those little rooms, 


with one's books and drawings, and this noble avenne for 
a pensive stroll.' 

* I wish to heaven, my dear Glastonbury, you would try 
the experiment,' said Sir Ratcliffe. 

*Ah! do, Mr. Glastonbury,' added Lady Armine, 'take 
pity, upon us ! ' 

* At any rate, it is not so dull as a cloister,' added Sir 
Ratcliffe ; * and, say what they like, there is nothing like 
living among friends.* 

* You would find me very troublesome,' replied Glaston- 
bury, with a smile ; and then, turning the conversation, 
evidently more from embarrassment than distaste, he re- 
marked the singularity of the purple beeches. 

Their origin was uncertain; but one circumstance is sure : 
that, before another month had passed, Glastonbury was 
tenant for life of the portal of Armine Castle, and all his 
books and collections were safely stowed and arranged in 
the rooms with which he had been so much pleased. 

The coxirse of time for some years flowed on happily at 
Armine. In the second year of their marriage Lady Armine 
presented her husband with a son. Their family was never 
afterwards increased, but the proud father was consoled by 
the sex of his child for the recollection that the existence 
of his line depended upon the precious contingency of a 
single life. The boy was christened Ferdinand. With the 
exception of an annual visit to Lord Grandison, the Armine 
family never quitted their home. Necessity as well as 
taste induced this regularity of life. The affairs of Sir 
Batcliffe did not improve. His mortgagees were more 
strict in their demands of interest than his tenants in pay- 
ment of their rents. His man of business, who had made 
his fortune in the service of the family, was not wanting in 
accommodation to his cHent ; but he was a man of business ; 
he could not sympathise with the peculiar feelings and 
fancies of Sir Eatcliffe, and he persisted in seizing every 


opportunity of urging on him the advisability of selling his 
estates. However, by strict economy and temporary assist- 
ance from his lawyer, Sir Ratcliffe, during the first ten 
years of his marriage, managed to carry on affairs ; and 
though occasional embarrassments sometimes caused him 
fits of gloom and despondency, the sanguine spirit of his 
wife, and the confidence in the destiny of their beautifiil 
child which she regularly enforced upon him, maintained 
on the whole his courage. All their hopes and joys were 
indeed centred in the education of the little Ferdinand. 
At ten years of age he was one of those spirited and at the 
same time docile boys, who seem to combine with the wild 
and careless grace of childhood the thoughtfulness and self- 
discipline of maturer age. It was the constant and truthful 
boast of his parents, that, in spite of all his liveliness, he 
had never in the whole course of his life disobeyed them. 
In the village, where he was idolised, they called him * the 
little prince ; ' he was so gentle and so generous, so kind 
and yet so dignified in his demeanour. His education 
was remarkable ; for though he never quitted home, and 
lived in such extreme seclusion, so richly gifted were those 
few persons with whom he passed his life, that it would 
have been difficult to have fixed upon a youth, however 
favoured by fortune, who enjoyed greater advantages for 
the cultivation of his mind and manners. From the first 
dawn of the intellect of the young Armine, Glastonbury 
had devoted himself to its culture ; and the kind scholar, 
who had not shrunk from the painful and patient task of 
impregnating a young mind with the seeds of knowledge, 
had bedewed its budding promise with all the fertilisii^ 
influence of his learning and his taste. As Ferdinand 
advanced in years, he had participated in the accomplish- 
ments of his mother ; from her he derived not only a taste 
for the fine arts, but no unskilful practice. She, too, had 
cultivated the rich voice with which Nature had endowed 


him ; and it was lus mother who taught him not only to 
sing, but to dance. In more manly accomplishments, Fer- 
dinand conld not have found a more skilful instructor than 
his £a.ther, a consummate sportsman, and who, like all his 
ancestors, was remarkable for his finished horsemanship 
and the certainty of his aim. Under a roof, too, whose 
inmates were distinguished for their sincere piety and un- 
affected virtue, the higher duties of existence were not 
forgotten ; and Ferdinand Armine was early and ever 
taught to be sincere, dutifdl, charitable, and just ; and to 
have a deep sense of the great account hereafber to be 
delivered to his Creator. The very foibles of his parents 
which he imbibed tended to the maintenance of his mag- 
nanimity. His illustrious lineage was early impressed 
upon him, and inasmuch as little now was left to them but 
their honour, so it was doubly incumbent upon him to 
preserve that chief treasure, of which fortune could not 
deprive them, unsulHed. 

This much of the education of Ferdinand Armine. With 
great gifts of nature, with lively and highly cultivated 
talents, and a most affectionate and disciplined temper, he 
was adored by the friends who nevertheless had too much 
sense to spoil him. But for his character, what was that P 
Perhaps, with all their anxiety and all their care, and all 
their apparent opportunities for observation, the parent 
and the tutor are rarely skilful in discovering the character 
of their child or charge. Custom blunts the fineness of 
psychological study : those with whom we have lived long 
and early are apt to blend our essential and our accidental 
qualities in one bewildering association. The consequences 
of education and of nature are not sufficiently discriminated. 
Nor is it, indeed, marvellous, that for a long time tempera- 
ment should be disguised and even stified by education ; 
for it is, as it were, a contest between a child and a man. 

There were moments when Ferdinand Armine loved ta 


be alone, when he could fly from all the fondness of his 
friends, and roam in solitude amid the wild and desolate 
pleasure-groTinds, or wander for hours in the halls and 
galleries of the castle, gazing on the pictures of his an- 
cestors. He ever experienced a strange satis&ction in 
beholding the portrait of his grandfather. He would some- 
times stand abstracted for many minutes before the portrait 
of Sir Ferdinand in the gallery, painted by Reynolds, 
before his grandfather left England, and which the child 
already singularly resembled. But was there any other 
resemblance between them than form and feature ? Did 
the fiery imagination and the terrible passions of that 
extraordinary man lurk in the inno«ent heart and the 
placid mien of his young descendant ? No matter now ! 
Behold, he is a light-hearted and airy child ! Thought 
passes over his brow like a cloud in a summer sky, or the 
shadow of a bird over the sunshiny earth ; and he skims 
away from the silent hall and his momentary reverie, to fly 
a kite or chase a butterfly ! 



Tears glided away without any remarkable incidents in the 
life of young Ferdinand. He seldom quitted home, except 
as companion to Glastonbury in his pedestrian excursions, 
when he witnessed a different kind of life from that dis- 
played in the annual visit which he paid to Grandison. 
The boy amused his grandfather, with whom, therefore, he 
became a favourite. The old Lord, indeed, would have had 
no objection to his grandson passing half the year with 
him ; and he always returned home with a benediction, a 
letter fall of his praises, and a ten-pound note. Lady 


Armine was quite delighted with these symptoms of affec- 
tion on the part of her father towards her child, and augured 
from them important fdture results. But Sir Ratcliffe, who 
was not blessed with so sanguine a temperament as his 
amiable lady, and who, unbiassed by blood, was perhaps 
better qualified to form an opinion of the character of his 
father-in-law, never shared her transports, and seldom 
omitted an opportunity of restraining them. 

' It is all very well, my dear,' he would observe, * for 
Ferdinand to visit his relations. Lord Grandison is his 
grandfather. It is very proper that he should visit his 
grandfather. I like him to bo seen at Grandison. That 
is all very right. Grrandisoh is a first-rate establishment, 
where he is certain of meeting persons of his own class, 
with whom circumstances unhappily,' and here Sir Rat- 
cliffe sighed, ' debar him from mixing ; and your father, 
Constance, is a very good sort of man. I like your father, 
Constance, you know, very much, No person ever could 
be more courteous to me than he has ever been. I have 
no complaints to make of him, Constance ; or your brother, 
or indeed of any member of your family, I like them 
alL Persons more kind, or more thoroughly bred, I am sure 
I never knew. And I think they like us. They appear to 
me to be always really glad to see ua, and to be unaffectedly 
sorry when we quit them. I am sure I should be very 
happy if it were in my power to return their hospitality, 
and welcome them at Armine : but it is useless to think of 
that. God only knows whether we shall be able to remain 
here ourselves. All I want to make you feel, my love, is, 
that if you are building any castle in that little brain of 
yours on the ground of expectations from Grandison, trust 
me you will be disappointed, my dear, you will indeed.' 

* But, my love — ' 

* If your fiither die to-morrow, my dear, he will not leave 
ns a shilling. And who can complain ? I cannot. He has 


always been very frank. I remember when we were going 
to marry, and I was obliged to talk to him about yonr por- 
tion ; I remember it as if it were only yesterday ; I remember 
bis saying, witb the most flattering smile in the world, " I 
wish the 5,000Z., Sir Ratcliffe, were 50,000Z., for your sake ; 
particularly as it will never be in my power to increase it." * 

* But, my dear Ratcliffe, surely he may do something for 
his favourite, Ferdinand ? ' 

* My dear Constance, there you are again ! Why /a- 
vcmrite ? I hate the very word. Your father is a good- 
natured man, a very good-natured man : he is one of the 
best-natured men I ever was acquainted with. He has not 
a single care in the world, and he thinks nobody else has ; 
and what is more, my dear, nobody ever could persuade 
him that anybody else has. He has no idea of our situa« 
tion ; he never could form an idea of it. K I chose to 
attempt to make him understand it he would listen with 
the greatest politeness, shrug his shoulders at the end of 
the story, tell me to keep up my spirits, and order another 
bottle of Madeira in order that he might illustrate his pra- 
cept by practice. He is a good-natured selfish man. He 
likes us to visit him because you are gay and agreeable, 
and because I never asked a favour of him in the whole 
course of our acquaintance : he likes Ferdinand to visit 
him because he is a handsome fine-spirited boy, and his 
friends congratulate him on having such a grandson. And 
so Ferdinand is his fcuvourite ; and next year I should not 
be surprised were he to give him a pony : and perhaps, if 
he die, he will leave him fifty guineas to buy a gold watch.' 

* Well, I dare say you are right, Ratcliffe ; but still 
nothing that you can say will ever persuade me that Ferdi- 
nand is not papa's decided favourite.' 

' Well ! we shall soon see what this favour is worth,' 
retorted Sir Ratcliffe, rather bitterly. * Regularly every 
visit for the last three years your father has asked me what 


I intended to do with Ferdinand. I said to Tiim last year 
more than I thought I ever could say to anyone. I told 
him that Ferdinand was now fifteen, and that I wished to 
get him a commission ; but that I had no influence to get 
him a commission, and no money to pay for it if it were 
offered me. I think that was pretty plain ; and I have 
been surprised ever since that I ever could have placed 
myself in such a degrading position as to say so much.' 

' Degrading, my dear Eatcliffe! ' said his wife. 

' I felt it as such; and such I still feel it.' 

At this moment Glastonbury, who was standing at the 
other end of the room examining a large foHo, and who had 
evidently been uneasy during the whole conversation, at- 
tempted to quit the room. 

* My dear Glastonbury,' said Sir Ratcliffe, with a forced 
smile, * you are alarmed at our domestic broils. Pray, do 
not leave the room. You know we have no secrets fix)ni 

*!Nb, pray do not go, Mr. Glastonbury,' added Lady 
Armine : * and if indeed there be a domestic broil,* and 
here she rose and kissed her husband, ' at any rate witness 
our reconciliation.' 

Sir Katcliffe smiled, and returned his wife's embrace with 
much feeling. 

* My own Constance,' he said, * you are the dearest wife 
in the world ; and if I ever feel unhappy, believe me it is 
only because I do not see you in the position to which you 
are entitled.' 

* I know no fortune to be compared to your love, Eat- 
clifTe ; and as for our child, nothing will ever persuade me 
that all will not go right, and that he will not restore the 
fortunes of tibe family.' 

* Amen ! ' said Glastonbury, closing the book with a re- 
verberating sound. * Nor indeed can I believe that Provi- 
dence will ever desert a great and pious line ! ' 




Lady Arminb and Glastonbury were botli too much in- 
terested in the welfare of Sir Eatcliffe not to observe with 
deep concern that a great, although gradual, change had 
occurred in his character during the last five years. He 
had become moody and querulous, and occasionally even 
irritable. His constitutional melancholy, long diverted by 
the influence of a vigorous youth, the society of a charming 
woman, and the interesting feelings of a father, began to 
reassert its ancient and essential sway, and at times even to 
deepen into gloom. Sometimes whole days elapsed without 
his ever indulging in conversation ; his nights, onoe tran- 
quil, were now remarkable for their restlessness ; his wife 
was alarmed at the sighs and agitation of his dreams. 
He abandoned also his field sports, and none of those 
innocent sources of amusement, in which it was once his 
boast their retirement was so rich, now interested him. In 
vain Lady Armine sought his society in her walks, or con- 
sulted him about her flowers. His frigid and monosyllabic 
replies discouraged all her efibrts. No longer did he lean 
over her easel, or call for a repetition of his favourite song. 
At times these dark fits passed away, and if not cheerful, 
he was at least serene. But on the whole he was an altered 
man ; and his wife could no longer resist the miserable con- 
viction that he was an unhappy one. 

She, however, was at least spared the mortification, the 
bitterest that a wife can- experience, of feeling that this 
change in his conduct was occasioned by any indiflerence 
towards her ; for, averse as Sir Ratch'fie was to converse 
on a subject so hopeless and ungrateful as the state of his 
fortune, still there were times in which he could not refrain 

A LO\nE STORY. 29 

from commnnicatiiig to the partner of his bosom all the 
causes of his misery, and these, indeed, too truly had she 

* Alas ! ' she would sometimes say as she tried to compose 
his restless pillow ; * what is this pride to which you men 
sacrifice everything ? For me, who am a woman, love is 
sufficient. Oh ! my Eatchffe, why do you not feel like your 
Constance? What if these estates be sold, still we are 
Armines ! and stiU our dear Ferdinand is spared to us ! 
Believe me, love, that if deference to your feelings has 
prompted my silence, I have long felt that it would be wiser 
for us at once to meet a necessary evil. For God's sake put 
an end to the torture of this life, which is destroying us both. 
Poverty, absolute poverty, with you and vfith your love, I 
can meet even with cheerfdlness ; but indeed, my Ratcliffe, 
I can bear our present life no longer ; I shall die if you be 
unhappy. And oh! dearest Ratcliflfe, if that were to happen, 
which sometimes I fear has happened, if you were no longer 
to love me — ' 

But here Sir Eatcliffe assured her of the reverse. 

* Only think,' she would continue, ' if when we mdrried 
we had voluntarily done that which we may now be forced 
to do, we really should have been almost rich people ; at 
least we should have had quite enough to Hve in ease, and 
even elegance. And now we owe thousands to that horrible 
Bagster, who I am sure cheated your father out of house 
and home, and I dare say, after all, wants to buy Armine 
for himself.' 

* He buy Armine ! An attorney buy Armine ! Never, 
Constance, never ! I will be buried in its ruins first. 
There is no sacrifice that I would not sooner make — ' 

* But, dearest love, suppose we sell it to some one else, 
and suppose after paying every thing we have thirty thou- 
sand pounds left. How well we could live abroad on the 
interest of thirty thousand pounds ? ' 


* There woidd not be tHrty thousand poimds left now ! ' 

* Well, five-and-tweniy, or even twenty. I could manage 
on twenty. And then we could buy a commission for dear 

* But to leave our child ! ' 

' Could not he go into the Spanish service ? Perhaps you 
could get a com mission in the Spanish Guards for nothing. 
They must remember you there. And such a name as 
Armine ! I have no doubt that the king would be quite 
proud to have another Armine in his guard. And then wo 
could live at Madrid; and that would be so delightful, 
because you speak Spanish so beautifcdly, and I could learn 
it very quickly. I am very quick at learning languages. I 
am, indeed.' 

* I think you are very quick at everything, dear Constance. 
I am sure you are really a treasure of a wife ; I have cause 
every hour to bless you ; and, if it were not for my ovm 
sake, I should say that I wished you had made a happier 

* Oh ! do not say that, Ratclifife ; say anything but that, 
RatcHffe. If you love me I am the happiest woman that 
ever lived. Be sure always of that.' 

* I wonder if they do remember me at Madrid ! ' 

* To be sure they do. How could they forget you ; how 
could they forget mj RatcHffe ? I dare say you go to this 
day by the name of the handsome Englishman.' 

* Poh ! I remember when I left England before, I had no 
wife then, no child, but I remembered who I was, and when 
I thought I was the last of our race, and that I was in all 
probability going to spill the little blood that was spared 
of us in a foreign soil, oh, Constance, I do not think I ever 
could forget the agony of that moment. Had it been for 
England, I would have met my fate without a pang. "No I 
Constance, I am an Englishman : I am proud of being an 
Englishman. My fathers helped to make this country what 


it is ; no one can deny tliat ; and no consideration in the 
world shall ever induce me agaia to quit this island.' 

* But suppose we do not quit England. Suppose we buy 
a small estate and live at home.' 

' A small estate at home ! A small, new estate ! Bought 
of a Mr. Hopkins, a great tallow-chandler, or some stock- 
jobber about to make a new flight firom a Lodge to a Park. 
Oh no ! that would be too degrading.' 

* But suppose we keep one of our own manors ? * 

* And be reminded every instant of every day of those 
we have lost ; and hear of the wonderful improvements of 
our successors. I should go mad.' 

* But suppose we live in London ? ' 

* I am sure I do not know ; but I should think we might 
get a nice little house somewhere.' 

* Li a suburb ! a fitting lodgment for Lady Armine. No ! 
at any rate we will have no witnesses to our fall.' 

* But could not we try some place near my father's ? ' 

* And be patronised by the great family with whom I 
had the good fortune of being connected. No ! my dear 
Constance, I like your father very well, but I could not 
stand his eleemosynary haunches of venison, and great 
baskets of apples and cream-cheeses sent with the house- 
keeper's duty.' 

* But what shall we do, dear Ratcliffe ? ' 

* My love, there is no resisting fate. We must live or 
die at Armine, even if we starve.' 

* Perhaps something will turn up. I dreamt the other 
night that dear Ferdinand married an heiress. Suppose he 
were ? What do you think ? ' 

* Why, even then, that he would not be as lucky as his 
father. Good night, love ! ' 





The day after the conversation in the library to which 
Glastonbury had been an nnwilling listener, he informed 
his friends that it was necessary for him to visit the metro- 
polis ; and as yonng Ferdinand had never yet seen London, 
he proposed that he should accompany him. Sir Ratcliffe 
and Lady Armine cheerfully assented to this proposition ; 
and as for Ferdinand, it is difl&cult to describe the delight 
which the anticipation of his visit occasioned him. The 
three days that were to elapse before his departure did not 
seem sufficient to ensure the complete packing of his port- 
manteau ; and his excited manner, the rapidity of his con- 
versation, and the restlessness of his movements were very 

* Mamma! is London twenty times bigger than Not- 
tingham? How big is it then? Shall we travel all night? 
What o'clock is it now ? I wonder if Thursday wi.ll ever 
come ? I think I shall go to bed early, to finish the day 
sooner. Do you think my cap is good enough to travel in ? 
I shall buy a hat in London. I shall get up early the very 
first morning, and buy a hat. Do you think my uncle is in 
London ? I wish Augustus were not at Eton, perhaps he 
would be there. I wonder if Mr. Glastonbury will take me 
to see St. Paul's! I wonder if he will take me to the play. 
I'd give anything to go to the play. I should like to go to 
the play and St. Paul's ! What fun it will be dining on 
the road ! ' 

It did indeed seem that Thursday would never come ; 
yet it came at last. The travellers were obliged to rise 


before the sun, and drive over to Nottingliain to meet their 
coach ; so they bid their adieus the previous eve. As for 
Ferdinand, so fearful was he of losing the coach, that he 
scarcely slept, and was never convinced that he was really 
in time, until he found himself planted in breathless agita- 
tion outside of the Dart light post coach. It was the first 
time in his life that he had ever travelled outside of a coach. 
He felt all the excitement of expanding experience and 
advancing manhood. They whirled along : at the end of 
every stage Ferdinand followed the example of his fellow- 
travellers and dismounted, and then with sparkling eyes 
hurried to Glastonbury, who was inside, ip inquire how he 
sped. * Capital travelling, isn't it, sir? Did the ten miles 
within the hour. You have no idea what a fellow our 
coachman is ; and the guard, such a fellow our guard ! 
Don't wait here a moment. Can I get anything for you ? 
We dine at Mill-field. What fan ! ' 

Away whirled the dashing Dart over the rich plains of 
our merry midland ; a quick and dazzling vision of golden 
corn-fields and lawny pasture land ; farmhouses embowered 
in orchards and hamlets shaded by the straggling members 
of some vast and ancient forest. Then rose in the distance 
the dim blue towers, or the graceful spire, of some old 
cathedral, and soon the spreading causeways announce 
their approach to some provincial capital. The coachman 
flanks his leaders, who break into a gallop ; the guard 
sounds his triumphant bugle ; the coach bounds over the 
noble bridge that spans a stream covered with craft; public 
buildings, guildhalls, and county gaols rise on each side. 
Rattling through many an inferior way they at length 
emerged into the High Street, the observed of all observers, 
and mine host of the Red Lion, or the White Hart, followed 
by all his waiters, advances from his portal with a smile to 
receive the * gentlemen passengers.' 



* The coach stops here half an hour, gentleinen : dinner 
quite ready! ' 

'Tis a delightftil sonnd. And what a dinner ! What a 
profusion of substantial delicacies ! What mighty and iris- 
tinted rounds of beef! What vast and marble- veined ribs! 
What gelatinous veal pies ! What colossal hams ! Those 
are evidently prize cheeses ! And how invigorating is the 
perfume of those various and variegated pickles! Then 
the bustle emulating the plenty ; the ringing of bells, the 
'^clash of thoroughfare, the summoning of ubiquitous waiters, 
and the all-pervading feeling of omnipotence, from the 
guests, who order what they please, to the landlord, who 
can produce and execute everything they can desire. 'Tis 
a wondrous sight. Why should a man go and see the 
pyramids and cross the desert, when he has not beheld 
York Minster or travelled on the Bead! 

Our little Ferdinand amid all this novelty heartily en- 
joyed himself, and did ample justice to mine host's good 
cheer. They were soon again whirling along the road ; 
but at sunset, FerdiDand, at the instance of Glastonbury, 
availed himself of his inside place, and, wearied by the air 
and the excitement of the day, he soon fell soundly asleep. 

Several hours had elapsed, when, awaking from a con- 
fused dream in which Armine and all he had lately seen 
were blended together, he found his fellow-travellers slum- 
bering, and the mail dashing along through the illuminated 
streets of a great city. The streets were thickly thronged. 
Ferdinand stared at the magnificence of the shops blazing 
with lights, and the multitude of men and vehicles moving 
in aU directions. The guard sounded his bugle with treble 
energy, and the coach suddenly turned through an arched 
entrance into the court-yard of an old-fashioned inn. His 
fellow-passengers started and rubbed their eyes. 

* So! we have arrived, I suppose,' grumbled one of these 
gentlemen, taking off his night-cap. 


*Yes, gentleineii, I am happy to say our jonmey is 
finished,' said a more polite voice ; * and a very pleasant 
one I have found it. Porter, have the goodness to call me 
a coach.' 

* And one for me,' added the gmff voice. 

* Mr. Glastonbury,' whispered the awe-struck Ferdinand, 
*is this London?' 

* This is London : but we have yet two or three miles to 
go before we reach our quarters. I think we had better 
alight and look after our luggage. Gentlemen, good 
evening ! ' 

Mr. Glastonbury hailed a coach, into which, having 
safely deposited their portmanteaus, he and Ferdinand 
entered; but our young fidend was so entirely overcome 
by his feelings and the genius of the place, that he was 
quite unable to make an observation. Each minute the 
streets seemed to grow more spacious and more brilHant, 
and the multitude more dense and more excited. Beauti- 
ful buildings, too, rose before him ; palaces, and churches, 
and streets, and squares of imposing architecture ; to his 
inexperienced eye and unsophisticated spirit their route 
appeared a never-ending triumph. To the hackney-coach- 
man, however, who had no imagination, and who was quite 
satiated with metropoHtau experience, it only appeared 
that he had had an exceeding good fare, and that he was 
jogging up from Bishopsgate Street to Charing Cross. 

When Jarvis, therefore, had safely deposited his charge 
at Morley's Hotel, in Cockspur Street, and extorted from 
them an extra shilling, in consideration of their evident 
rustication, he bent his course towards the Opera House ; 
for clouds were gathering, and, with the favour of Provi- 
dence, there seemed a chance about midnight of picking 
up some helpless beau, or desperate cabless dandy, the 
choicest victim, in a midnight shower, of these public con- 

D 2 


The coffee-room at Morley's was a new scene of amuse- 
ment to Ferdinand, and lie watched with great diversion 
the two evening papers portioned out among twelve eager 
quidnuncs, and the evident anxiety which they endured, 
and the nice diplomacies to which they resorted, to obtain 
the envied journals. The entrance of our two travellers 
so alarmingly increasiDg the demand over the supply, at 
first seemed to attract considerable and not very friendly 
notice ; but when a malignant half-pay officer, in order to 
revenge himself for the restless watchfulness of his neigh- 
bour, a political doctor of divinity, offered the journal, 
which he had long finished, to Glastonbury, and it was 
declined, the general alarm visibly diminished. Poor Mr. 
Glastonbury had never looked into a newspaper in his life, 
save the County Chronicle, to which he occasionally con- 
tributed a communication, giving an account of the digging 
up of some old coins, signed Antiquarius ; or of the exhu- 
mation of some fossil remains, to which he more boldly 
appended his initials. 

In spite of the strange clatter in the streets, Ferdinand 
slept well, and the next morning, after an early breakfast, 
himself and his fellow-traveller set out on their peregrina- 
tions. Young and sanguine, full of health and enjoyment, 
innocent and happy, it was with difficulty that Ferdinand 
could restrain his spirits as he mingled in the bustle of the 
streets. It was a bright sunny morning, and although the 
end of June, the town was yet quite full. 

* Is this Charing Cross, sir ? I wonder if we shall ever 
be able to get over. Is this the fullest part of the town, 
sir ? What a fine day, sir! How lucky we are in the 
weather! We are lucky in everything! Whose house is 
that ? Northumberland House ! Is it the Duke of Nor- 
thumberland's ? Does he live there ? How I should like 
to see it ! Is it very fine ? Who is that ? What is this ? 
The Admiralty; oh! let me see the Admiralty! The 


Horse Guards ! Ob ! where, where ? Let us set our 
watches by the Horse Guards. The guard of our coach 
always sets his watch by the Horse Guards. Mr. Glaston- 
bury, which is the best clock, the Horse Guards, or St. 
Paul's ? Is that the Treasury ? Can we go in ? That is 
Downing Street, is it ? I never heard of Downing Street, 
What do they do in Downing Street ? Is this Charing 
Cross still, or is it Parliament Street ? Where does 
Charing Cross end, and where does Parliament Street 
begin ? By Jove, I see Westminster Abbey! * 

After visiting Westminster Abbey and the two Houses of 
Parliament, Mr. Glastonbury, looking at his watch, said it 
was now time to call upon a friend of his who lived in St. 
James's Square. This was the nobleman with whom early 
in life Glastonbury had been connected, and with whom and 
whose family he had become so great a favourite, that, not- 
withstanding his retired life, they had never permitted the 
connexion entirely to subside. During the very few visits 
which he had made to the metropolis, he always called in 
St. James's Square, and his reception always assured him 
that his remembrance imparted pleasure. 

When Glastonbury sent up his name he was instantly 
admitted, and ushered up stairs. The room was full, but 
it consisted only of a family party. The mother of the 
Duke, who was an interesting personage, with fine grey hair, 
a clear blue eye, and a soft voice, was surrounded by her 
great-grandchildren, who were at home for the Midsummer 
holidays, and who had gathered together at her rooms this 
morjaing to consult upon amusements. Among them was the 
heir presumptive of the house, a youth of the age of Ferdi- 
nand, and of a prepossessing appearance. It was difficult to 
meet a more amiable and agreeable family, and nothing could 
exceed the kindness with which they all welcomed Glaston- 
bury. The Duke himself soon appeared. * My dear, dear 
Glastonbury,' he said, ' I heard you were here, and I would 


come. This shall be a holiday for us all. Why, man, you 
bury yourself alive ! ' 

* Mr. Annine,* said the Duchess, pointing to Ferdinand. 

* Mr. Armine, how do you do ? Your grandfather and I 
were well acquainted. I am glad to know his grandson. 
I hope your father, Sir BatchfTe, and Lady Armine are 
well. My dear Glastonbury, I hope you have come to stay a 
long time. You must dine with us every day. You know 
we are very old-fashioned people ; we do not go much into 
the world; so you will always find us at home, and we 
will do what we can to amuse your young Mend. Why, 
I should think he was about the same age as Digby ? Is 
he at Eton ? His grandfather was. I shall never forget tlie 
time he cut off old Barnard's pig-tail. He was a wonder- 
ful man, poor Sir Ferdinand ! he was indeed.' 

While his Grace and Glastonbury maintained their con- 
versation, Ferdinand conducted himself with so much spirit 
and propriety towards the rest of the party, and gave them 
such a lively and graceful narrative of all his travels up to 
town, and the wonders he had already witnessed, that they 
were quite delighted with him; and, in short, from this 
moment, during his visit to London he was scarcely ever 
out of their society, and every day became a greater favourite 
with them. His letters to his mother, for he wrote to her 
almost every day, recounted all their successfiil efforts for 
his amusement, and it seemed that he passed his mornings 
in a round of sight-seeing, and that he went to the play 
every night of his life. Perhaps there never existed a 
human being who at this moment more thoroughly enjoyed 
life than Ferdinand Armine. 

Li the meantime while he thought only of amusement, 
Mr. Glastonbury was not inattentive to his more important 
interests ; for the truth is that this excellent man had intro- 
duced him to the family only with the hope of interesting 
the feelings of the Duke in his behalf. His Grace was a 


man of a generous disposition. He sympathised with the 
recital of Glastonbury as he detailed to hiTn the unfortu- 
nate situation of this youth, sprung from so illustrious a 
lineage, and yet cut off by a combination of unhappy cir- 
cumstances from almost all those natural sources whence he 
might have expected support and countenance. And when 
Glastonbury, seeing that the Duke's heart was moved, 
added that all he required for him, Ferdinand, was a com- 
mission in the army, for which his parents were prepared 
to advance' the money, his Grace instantly declared that he 
would exert all his influence to obtain their purpose. 

Mr. Glastonbury was, therefore, more gratified than sur- 
prised when, a few days after the conversation which we 
have mentioned, his noble friend informed him, with a smile, 
that he believed all might be arranged, provided his young 
charge could make it convenient to quit England at once. 
A vacancy had unexpectedly occurred in a regiment just 
ordered to Malta, and an ensigncy had been promised to 
Ferdinand Armine. Mr. Glastonbury gratefully closed with 
the offer. He sacrificed a fourth part of his moderate inde- 
pendence in the purchase of the commission and the outfit 
of his young friend, and had the supreme satisfaction, ere 
the third week of their visit was completed, of forwarding 
a Gazette to Armine, containing the appointment of Ferdi- 
nand Armine as Ensign in the Boyal Fusiliers. 



It was arranged that Ferdinand should join his regiment by 
the next Mediterranean packet, which was not to quit Fal- 
mouth for a fortnight. Glastonbury and himself, therefore, 
lost no time in bidding adieu to their kind friends in 

40 HtSEffiTTA TEMH,E: 

London, and LasteniDg to Annine. They airiTed the day 
after tbe Gazette. They fonnd Sir BateliSb waitiiig for them 
at the town, and the fond smile and cordial embrace with 
which he greeted Glaatonbnry more than repaid that good 
man for all hia exertions. There was, notwithstanding, a 
perceptible degree of constraint both on the part of the 
baronet and his former tntor. It was evident that Sir 
Batclifle had something on his mind of which he wished 
to disburden himself; and it was equally apparent that 
Olaatonbnry was unwilling to afford him an opportonity. 
Under these rather awkward circomstances, it was perhaps 
fortnnat« that Ferdinand talked without ceasing, giving his 
father an account of all he had seen, done, and heard, and 

of all the friends he had made, from the good Dnke of 

to that capital fellow the guard of the coach. 

They were at the park gates : Lady Armine was there 
to meet them. The carriage stopped ; Ferdinand jumped 
oat and embraced his mother. She kissed him, and rui 
forward and extended both hor hands to Mr. Glast«nbniy. 
* Deeds, not words, mnat show onr feelings,' ehe Baid, and 
the tears glittered in her beantifdl eyes ; Glastonbury, with 
a blush, pressed her hand to his lips. After dinner, daring 
which Ferdinand recounted all his adventures. Lady Annine 
invited him, when she rose, to walk with her in the garden. 
It was then, with an air of considerable conliision, clearing 
his throat, and filling his glass at the same time, that Sir 
Ratcliffe said to his remaining guest, 

' My dear Glastonbury, yoa cannot suppose that I believe 
that the days of magic have returned. This commission, 
boHi Constance and myself feel, that is, ire are certain, 
re at the bottom of it all. The commission is 
I could not expect the Dnke, deeply as I feel 

I generoDs kindness, to pnrchase a commission for my 
T could not permit it. No ! Glastonbury,' and here 

^KatcliiTe became more animated, ' yon could not permit 


it ; my honour is safe in your hands ? ' Sir Batcliffe paused 
for a reply. 

' On that score my conscience is clear,' replied Glaston- 

* It is then, it must be then as I suspect,' rejoined Sir 
Batcliffe. * I am your debtor for this great service.' 

* It is easy to count your obligations to me,' said Glaston- 
bury, * but mine to you and yours are incalculable.' 

* My dear Glastonbury,' said Sir Ratcliffe, pushing his 
glass away as he rose from his seat and walked up and down 
the room, ' I may be proud, but I have no pride for you, I 
owe you too much ; indeed, my dear Mend, there is nothing 
that I would not accept from you, were it in your power 
to grant what you would desire. It is not pride, my dear 
Glastonbury; do not mistake me; it is not pride that 
prompts this explanation ; but, but, had I your command of 
language I would explain myself more readily; but the 
truth is, I, I — I cannot permit that you should suffer for 
us, Glastonbury, I cannot indeed.' 

Mr. Glastonbury looked at Sir Ratcliffe steadily ; then 
rising from his seat he took the baronet's arm, and without 
saying a word walked slowly towards the gates of the castle 
where he lodged, and which we have before described. 
When he had reached the steps of the tower he with- 
drew his arm, and staying, * Let me be pioneer,' invited 
Sir Ratcliffe to follow him. They accordingly entered 
his chamber. 

It was a small room lined with shelves of books, except 
in one spot, where was suspended a portrait of Lady Bar- 
bara, which she had bequeathed him in her will. The floor 
was covered with so many boxes and cases that it was not 
very easy to steer a course when you had entered. Glaston- 
bury, however, beckoned to his companion to seat himself 
in one of his two chairs, while he unlocked a small cabinet, 
from a drawer of which he brought forth a paper. 


* It is my will,' said Glastonbury, handing it to Sir Bat- 
clifie, who laid it down on the table. 

' Nay, I wish yon, my dear friend, to pemse it, for it con- 
cerns yonrself.' 

' I would rather learn its contents from yourself^ if you 
positively desire me,' replied Sir Batdiffe. 

' I have left everything to our child,' said Glastonbury ; 
for thus, when speaking to the &ther alone, he would often 
style the son. 

' May it be long before he enjoys the bequest,' said Sir 
Batdiffe, brushing away a tear ; * long, veiy long.' 

'As the Almighty pleases,' said Glastonbury, crossing 
himself. ' But living or dead, I look upon all as Ferdinand's, 
and hold myself but the steward of his inheritance, which 
I will never abuse.' 

'O! Glastonbury, no more of this I pray; you have 
wasted a predous life upon our forlorn race. Alas ! how 
often and how keenly do I feel, that had it not been forthe 
name of Armine your great talents and goodness might 
have gained for you an enviable portion of earthly felicity ; 
yes, Glastonbury, you have sacrificed yourself to us.' 

' Would that I could ! ' said the old man, with brightening 
eyes and an unaccustomed energy of manner. 'Would 
that I could ! would that any act of mine, I care not what, 
could revive the fortunes of the house of Annine. Hon- 
oured for ever be the name, which with me is associated 
with all that is great and glorious in man, and (here his 
voice fsJtered, and he tamed away his fiboe) exquisite and 
enchanting in woman ! ' 

'No, Batdiffe,' he resumed, 'by the memory of one I 
cannot name, by that blessed and saintly being from idbom 
ywi. deaive your life, you wiU not, you cannot deny this 
last &voiir I ask, I entreat, I supplicate you to accord me : 
ae, who have ever eaten of your bread, and whom your 
loof hath evi» shrouded ! ^ 


* My Mend, I cannot speak^' said Sir Ratcliffe, throwing 
himself back in the chair and covering his face with his 
right hand ; ' I know not what to say ; I know not what to 

Glastonbury advanced, and gently took his other hand. 
* Dear Sir Ratcliffe,' he observed, in his usual calm, sweet 
voice, * if I have erred you will pardon me. I did believe 
that, after my long and intimate connection with your 
house ; after having for nearly forty years sympathised as 
deeply with all your fortunes as if, indeed, your noble 
blood flowed in these old veins ; after having been honoured 
on your side with a Mendship which has been the consola- 
tion and charm of my existence ; indeed, too great a bless- 
ing ; I did believe, more especially when I reminded myself 
of the unrestrained manner in which I had availed myself 
of the advantages of that friendship, I did beheve, actuated 
by feelings which perhaps I cannot describe, and thoughts 
to which I cannot now give utterance, that I might ven- 
ture, without offence, upon this slight service : ay, that the 
offering might be made in the spirit of most respectftil 
affection, and not altogether be devoid of favour in your 

' Excellent, kind-hearted man ! ' 3aid Sir Batcliffe, press- 
ing the hand of Glastonbury in his own ; * I accept your 
offering in the spirit of perfect love. Believe me, dearest 
friend, it was no feeling of false pride that for a moment 
influenced me ; I only felt — ' 

' That in venturing upon this humble service I deprived 

myself of some portion of my means of livelihood : you are 

mistaken. When I cast my lot at Armine I sank a portion 

of my capital on my life ; so slender are my wants here, 

and so little does your dear lady permit me to desire, that, 

l)elieve me, I have never yet expended upon myself this 

apportioned income ; and as for the rest, it is, as you have 

seen, destined for our Ferdinand. Yet a little time and 


Adrian Glasionbniy most be gathered to his Others. 
Why, then, depriTO him of the greatest gratification of his 
remaining years ? the consciousness that, to be really ser- 
viceable to those he loves, it is not necessary for him to 
cease to exist.' 

* May yon never repent yonr devotion to our house ! ' 
said Sir Batcliffe, rising from his seat. 'Time was we 
could give them who served us something better than 
thanks ; but, at any rate, these come from the heart.' 



Ik the meantime, the approaching departare of Ferdinand 
was the great topic of interest at Armine. It was settled 
that his father should accompany him to Falmouth, where 
he was to embark; and that they should pay a visit on 
their way to his grandfather, whose seat was situate in the 
west of England. This separation, now so near at hand, 
occasioned Lady Armine the deepest affliction; but she 
struggled to suppress her emotion. Yet often, while appa- 
rently busied with the common occupations of the day, the 
tears trickled down her cheek ; and often she rose from her 
restless seat, while surrounded by those she loved, to seek 
the solitude of her chamber and indulge her overwhelming 
sorrow. Nor was Ferdinand less sensible of the bitterness 
of this separation. With all the excitement of his new 
prospects, and the feeling of approaching adventure and 
fancied independence, so flattering to inexperienced youth, 
he could not forget that his had been a very happy home. 
Nearly seventeen years of an innocent existence had passed, 
undisturbed by a single bad passion, and unsullied by a 
single action that he could regret. The river of his life 


had glided along, reflecting only a cloudless sky. But if 
lie had been dutiful and happy, if at this moment of severe 
examination his conscience were serene, he could not but 
feel how much this enviable state of mind was to be 
attributed to those who had, as it were, imbued his life 
with love ; whose never- varying affection had developed all 
the kindly feehngs of his nature, had anticipated all his 
wants, and listened to all his wishes ; had assisted him in 
difficulty and guided him in doubt ; had invited confidence 
by kindness, and deserved it by sympathy; had robbed 
instruction of all its labour, and discipline of all its harsh- 

It was the last day ; on the morrow he was to quit Ar- 
mine. He strolled about among the mouldering chanjbers 
of the castle, and a host of thoughts and passions, lik^ 
clouds in a stormy sky, coursed over his hitherto serene 
and light-hearted breast. In this first great struggle of 
his soul some symptoms of his latent nature developed 
themselves, and, amid the rifts of the mental tempest, 
occasionally he caught some glimpses of self-knowledge. 
Nature, that had endowed him with a fiery imagination 
and a reckless courage, had tempered those dangerous, 
and, hitherto, those undeveloped and untried gifts, with a 
heart of infinite sensibility. Ferdinand Armine was, in 
truth, a singular blending of the daring and the soft ; and 
now, as he looked around him and thought of his illustrious 
and fallen race, and especially of that extraordinary man, 
of whose splendid and ruinous career, that man's own 
creation, the surrounding pile, seemed a fitting emblem, he 
asked himself if he had not inherited the energies with the 
name of his grandsire, and if their exertion might not yet 
revive the glories of his line. He felt within him alike the 
power and the will ; and while he indulged in magnificent 
reveries of fame and glory and heroic action, of which 
career, indeed, his approaching departure was to be the 


commencemeiit, the association of ideas led his recollection 
to those beings from whom he was about to depart. His 
fancy dropped like a bird of paradise in fall wing, tnmbling 
exhausted in the sky : he thought of his innocent and happy 
boyhood, of his father's thoughtful benevolence, his sweet 
mother's gentle assiduities, and Glastonbury's devotion ; 
and he demanded aloud, in a voice of anguish, whether 
Fate could indeed supply a lot more exquisite than to pass 
existence in these cahn and beauteous bowers with such 
beloved companions. 

His name was called : it was his mother's voice. He 
dashed away a desperate tear, and came forth with a 
smiUng face. His mother and father were walking to- 
gether at a little distance. 

' Ferdinand,' said Lady Armine, with an air of affected 
gaiety, * we have just been settling that you are to send me 
a gazelle from Malta.' And in this strain, speaking of 
slight things, yet all in some degree touching upon the 
mournful incident of the morrow, did Lady Armine for 
some time converse, as if she were all this time trying 
the fortitude of her mind, and accustoming herself to a 
catastrophe which she was resolved to meet with forti- 

While they were walking together, Glastonbury, who 
was hurrying from his rooms to the Place, for the dinner 
hour was at hand, joined them, and they entered their 
home together. It was singular at dinner, too, in what 
excellent spirits everybody determined to be. The dinner 
also, generally a simple repast, was almost as elaborate as 
the demeanour of the guests, and, although no one felt 
inclined to eat, consisted of every dish and delicacy which 
was supposed to be a favourite with Ferdinand. Sir Bat- 
cliffe, in general so grave, was to-day quite joyous, and 
produced a magnum of claret which he had himself dis- 
covered in the old cellara, and of which even Glastonbury, 


an babitnal water-drinker, ventured to partake. As for 
Lady Armine, slie scarcely ever ceased talking ; slie fonnd 
a jest in every sentence, and seemed only uneasy wlien 
there was silence. Ferdinand, of course, yielded himself to 
the apparent spirit of the party ; and, had a stranger been 
present, he could only have supposed that they were cele- 
brating some anniversary of domestic joy. It seemed 
rather a birth-day feast than the last social meeting of 
those who had lived together so long, and loved each other 
so dearly. 

But as the evening drew on their hearts began to grow 
heavy, and every one was glad that the early departure 
of the travellers on the morrow was an excuse for speedily 

* No adieus to-night ! ' said Lady Armine with a gay air, 
as she scarcely returned the habitual embrace of her son. 
* We shall be all np to-morrow.' 

So wishing his last good night with a charged heart and 
fidtering tongue, Ferdinand Armine took up his candle and 
retired to his chamber. He could not refrain from exercis- 
ing an unusual scrutiny when he had entered the room. 
He held np the light to the old accustomed walls, and 
threw a parting glance of affection at the curtains. There 
was the glass vase which his mother had never omitted 
each day to fill with fresh flowers, and the counterpane 
that was her own handiwork. He kissed it ; and, flinging 
off his clothes, was glad when he was surrounded with 
darkness and buried in his bed. 

There was a gentle tap at his door. He started. 

*Are you in bed, my Ferdinand ?' inquired his mother's 

Ere he could reply he heard the door open, and observed 
a tall white figure approaching him. 

Lady Armine, without speaking, knelt down by his bed- 
side and took him in her arms. She buried her face in his 


breast. He felt lier tears upon his heart. He conld not 
move ; he could not speak. At length he sobbed aloud. 

* May our Father that is in heaven bless you, my darling 
child ; may He guard over you ; may He preserve you ! ' 
Very weak was her still, solemn voice. * I would have 
spared you this, my darling. For you, not for myself^ 
have I controlled my feelings. But I knew not the strength 
of a mother's love. Alas ! what mother has a child like 
thee ? ! Ferdinand, my first, my only-bom : child of 
love and joy and happiness, that never cost me a thought 
of sorrow ; so kind, so gentle, and so dutiful ! must we, oh ! 
must we indeed part ? ' 

* It is too cruel,' continued liady Armine, kissing with a 
thousand kisses her weeping child. ' What have I done to 
deserve such misery as this ? Ferdinand, beloved Ferdi- 
nand, I shall die.' 

* I will not go, mother, I will not go,' wildly exclaimed 
the boy, disengaging himself from her embrace and start- 
ing up in his bed. * Mother, I cannot go. No, no, it 
never can be good to leave a home like this.' 

' Hush ! hush ! my darling. What words are these ? How 
unkind, how wicked is it of me to say all this ! Would 
that 1 had not come ! I only meant to listen at'your door a 
minute, and hear you move, perhaps to hear you speak, 
and like a fool, how naughty of me ! never, never shall I 
forgive myself; like a miserable fool I entered.* 

' My own, own mother, what shall I say ? what shall I 
do ? I love you, mother, with all my heart and soul and 
spirit's strength : I love you, mother. There is no mother 
loved as you are loved ! ' 

' 'Tis that that makes me mad. I know it. Oh ! why 
are you not like other children, Ferdinand ? When your 
uncle left us, my father said, ' Good-bye,' and shook his 
hand; and he, he scarcely kissed us, he was so glad to 


leave his liome ; but you — to-morrow ; no, not to-morrow. 
Can it be to-morrow ? ' 

* Mother, let me get up and call my feither, and tell him 
I will not go.' 

* Good (jod ! what words are these ? Not go ! 'Tis all 
your hope to go ; all ours, dear child. What would your 
Neither say were he to hear me speak thus ? Oh ! that I 
had not entered ! "What a fool I am ! ' 

* Dearest, dearest mother, believe me we shall soon meet.' 

* Shall we soon meet ? God ! how joyous will be the day.* 

* And I — I will write to you by every ship.' 
' Oh ! never fail, Ferdinand, never fitil.' 

* And send you a gazelle, and you shall call it by my 
name, dear mother.' 

* Darling child ! ' 

' You know I have often stayed a month at grandpapa's, 
and once six weeks. Why ! eight times six weeks, and I 
shall be home again.' 

* Home ! home again ! eight times six weeks ; a year, 
nearly a year 1 It seems eternity. Winter, and spring, 
and sunmier, and winter again, all to pass away. And for 
seventeen years he has scarcely been out of my sight. Oh ! 
my idol, my beloved, my darling Ferdinand, I cannot be- 
lieve it ; I cannot believe that we are to part.' 

* Mother, dearest mother, think of my father ; think how 
much his hopes are placed on me ; think, dearest mother, 
how much I have to do. All now depends on me, you know. 
I must restore our house.' 

* O 1 Ferdinand, I dare not express the thoughts that rise 
upon me ; yet I would say that, had I but my child, I could 
live in peace ; how, or where, I care not.' 

* Dearest mother, you unman me.' 

* It is very wicked. I am a fool. I never, no ! never shall 
I pardon myself for this night, Ferdinand.' 

* Sweet mother, I beseech you calm yourself. Believe nio 



we shall indeed meet very soon,, and somehow or other a 
little bird whispers to me we shall yet be very happy.' 

* But will you be the same Ferdinand to me as before ? 
Ay ! There it is, my child. You will be a man when you 
come back, and be ashamed to love your mother. Promise 
me now,' said Lady Armine, with extraordinary energy, 
* promise me, Ferdinand, you will always love me. Do not 
let them make you ashamed of loving me. They will joke, 
and jest, and ridicule all home affections. You are very 
young, sweet love, very, very young, and very inexperienced 
and susceptible. Do not let them spoil your frank and beau- 
tiful nature. Do not let them lead you astray. Remember 
Armine, dear, dear Armine, and those who live there. Trust 
me, oh ! yes, indeed beHeve me, darling, you will never find 
friends in this world like those you leave at Armine.' 

* I know it,' exclaimed Ferdinand, with streaming eyes ; 
' God be my witness how deeply I feel that truth. If I for- 
get thee and them, dear mother, may God indeed forget me.' 

* My Ferdinand,' said Lady Armine, in a calm tone, * I- am 
better now. I hardly am sorry that I did come now. It 
will be a consolation to me in your absence to remember all 
you have said. Good night, my beloved child ; my darling 
child, good night. I shall not come down to-morrow, dear. 
We will not meet again ; I will say good-bye to you from the 
window. Be happy, my dear Ferdinand, and as you say 
indeed, we shall soon meet again. Eight-and-forty weeks ! 
Why what are eight-and-forty weeks ? It is not quite a 
year. Courage, my sweet boy ! let us keep up each other's 
spirits. Who knows what may yet come from this your 
first venture into the world ? I am ftdl of hope. I trust 
you will find all that you want. I packed up everything 
myself. Whenever you want anything write to your mo- 
ther. Mind, you have eight packages ; I have written them, 
down on a card and placed it on the hall table. And take 
the greatest care of old Sir Ferdinand's sword. I am very 


superstitions about that sword, and while yon have it I am 
sure yon will sncceed. I have ever thonght that had he 
taken it with him to France aU wonld have gone right with 
him. God bless, God Almighty bless yon, child. Be of 
good heart. I will write yon everything that takes place, 
and, as yon say, we shall soon meet. Indeed, after to-night,' 
she added in a more monmfnl tone, ' we have nonght else 
to think of bnt of meeting. I fear it is very late. Yonr 
father will be surprised at my absence.' She rose from his 
bed and walked 'up and down the room several times in 
silence ; then again approaching him, she folded him in her 
arms and quitted the chamber without again speaking. 



The exhausted Ferdinand found consolation in sleep. When 
he woke the dawn was just breaking. He dressed and went 
forth to look, for the last time, on his hereditary woods. 
The air was cold, but the sky was perfectly clear, and the 
beams of the rising sun soon spread over the blue heaven. 
How fresh, and glad, and sparkling was the surrounding 
scene ! With what enjoyment did he inhale the soft and 
renovating breeze ! The dew quivered on the grass, and 
the carol of the wakening birds, roused from their slumbers 
by the spreading warmth, resounded from the groves. From 
the green knoll on which he stood he beheld the clustering 
viUage of Armine, a little agricultural settlement formed of 
the peasants alone who lived on the estate. The smoke be- 
gan to rise in blue curls from the cottage chimneys, and the 
church clock struck the hour of five. It seemed to Ferdi- 
nand that those labourers were far happier than he, since 

E 2 


the setting sun would find tliem still at Armine : happy, 
happy Armine ! 

The sound of carriage wheels roused him from his reverie. 
The fatal moment had arrived. He hastened to the gate 
according to his promise, to bid farewell to Glastonbury. 
The good old man was up. He pressed his pupil to his 
bosom, and blessed him with a choking voice. 

* Dearest and kindest friend ! ' murmnred Ferdinand. 
Glastonbury placed round his neck a small golden crucifix 

that had belonged to Lady Barbara. ' Wear it next your 
heart, my child,' said he ; 'it will remind you of your God, 
and of us all.* Ferdinand quitted the tower with a thou- 
sand blessings. 

When he came in sight of the Place he saw his father 
standing by the carriage, which was already packed. Fer- 
dinand ran into the house to get the card which had been 
left on the hall table for him by his mother. He ran over 
the list with the old and faithfiil domestic, and shook hands 
with him. Nothing now remained. All was ready. His 
father was seated. Ferdinand stood a moment in thought. 

* Let me run up to my mother, sir ? ' 

' You had better not, my child,' replied Sir Ratcliflfe, * she 
does not expect you. Come, come along.' 

So he slowly seated himself, with his eyes fixed on the 
window of his mother's chamber ; and as the carriage drove 
off the window opened, and a hand waved a white handker- 
chief. He saw no more ; but as he saw it he clenched his 
hand in agony. 

How different was this journey to London from his last ! 
He scarcely spoke a word. Nothing interested him but his 
own feelings. The guard and the coachman, and the bustle 
of the inn, and the passing spectacles of the road, appeared 
a collection of impertinences. All of a sudden it seemed 
that his boyish feelings had deserted him. He was glad 
when they arrived in London, and glad that they were to 



stay in it only a single day. Sir Ratcliffe and his son called 
upon tlie Duke ; but, as they had anticipated, the family had 
quitted town. Our travellers pat up at Hatchett's, and the 
following night started for Exeter in the Devonport mail. 
Ferdinand arrived at the western metropolis having inter- 
changed with his father scarcely a hundred sentences. At 
Exeter, after a night of most welcome rest, they took a 
post-chaise and proceeded by a cross-road to Grandison. 

When Lord Grandison, who as yet was perfectly un- 
acquainted with the revolutions in the Armine family, had 
clearly comprehended that his grandson had obtained a 
commission without either troubling him for his interest, or 
putting him in the disagreeable predicament of refasing his 
money, there were no bounds to the extravagant testimo- 
nials of his affection, both towards his son-in-law and his 
grandson. He seemed quite proud of such relations ; he 
patted Sir Batcliffe on his back, asked a thousand questions 
about his darling Constance, and hugged and slobbered 
over Ferdinand as if he were a child of five years old. 
He informed all his guests daily (and the house was full) 
that Lady Armine was his favourite daughter, and Sir Rat- 
cliffe his favourite son-in-law, and Ferdinand especially his 
favourite grandchild. He insisted upon Sir Ratcliffe always 
sitting at the head of his table, and always placed Ferdinand 
on his own right hand. He asked his butler aloud at dinner 
why he had not given a particular kind of Burgundy, 
because Sir Ratcliffe Armine was here. 

* Darbois,' said the old nobleman, * have not I told you 
that Clos de Vougeot is always to be kept for Sir Ratcliffe 
Armine? It is his favourite wine. Clos de Vougeot 
directly to Sir Ratcliffe Armine. I do not think, my dear 
madam (turning to a fair neighbour), that I have yet had 
the pleasure of introducing you to my son-in-law, my 
favourite son-in-law, Sir Ratcliffe Armine. He married my 
daughter Constance, my favourite daughter Constance. 


Only here for a few days, a very, very few days indeed. 
Quite a flying visit. I wisli I could see the whole family 
oftener and longer. Passing through to Falmouth with his 
son, this yonng gentleman on my right, my grandson, my 
favourite grandson, Ferdinand. Jnst got his commission. 
Ordered for Malta immediately. He is in the FusUeers, the 
Royal Fusileers. Very difl&cult, my dear madam, in these 
days to obtain a commission, especially a commission in the 
Royal Fusileers. Very great interest required, very great 
interest, indeed. But the Armines are a most ancient 
family, very highly connected, very highly connected; and, 

between you and me, the Duke of would do anything 

for them. Come, come Captain Armine, take a glass of 
wine with your old grandfather.' 

' How attached the old gentleman appears to be to his 
grandson ! ' whispered the lady to her neighbour. 

' Delightful ! yes ! ' was the reply, * I believe he is the 
favourite grandson.' 

In short, the old gentleman at last got so excited by the 
universal admiration lavished on his favourite grandson, 
that he finally insisted on seeing the young hero in his regi- 
mentals ; and when Ferdinand took his leave, after a great 
many whimpering blessings, his domestic feelings were 
worked up to such a pitch of enthusiasm, that he absolutely 
presented his grandson with a hundred-pound note. 

'Thank you, my dear grandpapa,' said the astonished 
Ferdinand, who really did not expect more than fifty, per- 
haps even a moiety of that more moderate sum ; ' thank you, 
my dear grandpapa ; I am very much obliged to you, 

' I wish I could do more for you ; I do, indeed,' said Lord 
Grandison ; ' but nobody ever thinks of paying his rent now. 
You are my grandson, my favourite grandson, my dear 
favourite daughter's only child. And you are an officer in 
his Majesty's service, an ofl&cer in the Royal Fusileers, only 


think of that ! It is the most unexpected thing that ever 
happened to me. To see yon so well and so nnexpecfcedly pro- 
vided for, my dear child, has taken a very great load off my 
mind ; it has indeed. Ton have no idea of a parent's anxiety 
in these matters, especially of a grandfather. You will some 
day, I warrant yon,' continued the noble grandfather, with 
an expression between a giggle and a leer ; * but do not be 
wild, my dear Ferdinand, do not be too wild at least. Young 
blood must have its way ; but be cautious ; now, do ; be 
cautious, my dear child. Do not get into any scrapes ; at 
least, do not get into any serious scrapes ; and whatever 
happens to you,' and here his lordship assumed even a 
solemn tone, * remember you have friends ; remember, my 
dear boy, you have a grandfather, and that you, my dear 
Ferdinand, are his favourite grandson.' 

This passing visit to Grandison rather rallied the spirits 
of our travellers. When they arrived at Falmouth, they 
fonnd, however, that the packet, which waited for govern- 
ment despatches, was not yet to sail. Sir Ratcliffe scarcely 
knew whether he ought to grieve or to rejoice at the re- 
prieve ; but he determined to be gay. So Ferdinand and 
himself passed their mornings in visiting the mines, Pen- 
dennis Castle, and the other lions of the neighbourhood ; 
and returned in the evening to their cheerful hotel, with 
good appetites for their agreeable banquet, the mutton of 
Dartmoor and the cream of Devon. 

At length, however, the hour of separation approached ; 
a message awaited them at the inn, on their return from 
one of their rambles, that Ferdinand must be on board at 
an early hour on the morrow. That evening the conversa- 
tion between Sir Ratcliffe and his son was of a graver' 
nature than they usually indulged in. He spoke to him in 
confidence of his affairs. Dark hints, indeed, had before 
reached Ferdinand; nor, although his parents had ever 
spared his feelinsfs, could his intelligent mind have altogether 


refrained from guessing mucli that Lad never been formally 
communicated. Yet the truth was worse even than he had 
anticipated. Ferdinand, however, was young and sanguine. 
He encouraged his father with his hopes, and supported 
him by his sympathy. He expressed to Sir Ratcliffe his 
confidence that the generosity of his grandfather would 
prevent him at present from becoming a burden to his own 
parent, and he inwardly resolved that no possible circum- 
stance should ever induce him to abuse the benevolence of 
Sir Ratcliffe. 

The moment of separation arrived. Sir Eatclifie pressed 
to his bosom his only, his loving, and his beloved child. 
He poured over Ferdinand the deepest, the most fervid 
blessing that a father ever granted to a son. But, with all 
this pious consolation, it was a moment of agony. 






Nearly five years had elapsed between the event which 
formed the subject of our last chapter and the recal to 
England of the regiment in which Captain Armine now 
commanded a company. This period of time had passed 
away not unfruitful of events in the experience of that 
family, in whose fate and feelings I have attempted to 
interest the reader. In this interval Ferdinand Armine 
had paid one short visit to his native land ; a visit which 
had certainly been accelerated, if not absolutely occasioned, 
by the untimely death of his cousin Augustus, the presump- 
tive heir of Grandison. This unforeseen event produced a 
great revolution in the prospects of the family of Armine ; 
for although the title and an entailed estate devolved 
to a distant branch, the absolute property of the old 
lord was of great amount ; and, as he had no male heir 
now living, conjectures as to its probable disposition were 
now rife among all those who could possibly become in- 
terested in it. Whatever arrangement the old lord might 
decide upon, it seemed nearly certain that the Armine 
family must be greatly benefited. Some persons even went 
so far as to express their conviction that everything would 
be left to Mr. Armine, who everybody now discovered to 


have always been a particnlar fiavoitrite with his grand- 
father. At all events, Sir Ratcliffe, who ever maintained 
upon the subject a becoming silence, thought it as well that 
his son should remind his grandfather personally of his 
existence ; and it was at his father's suggestion that Fer- 
dinand had obtained a short leave of absence, at the first 
opportunity, to pay a hurried visit to Qrandison and his 

The old lord yielded him a reception which might have 
flattered the most daring hopes. He embraced Ferdinand, 
and pressed him to his heart a thousand times ; he gave 
him his blessing in the most formal manner every morning 
and evening ; and assured everybody that he now was not 
only his favourite but his only grandson. He did not even 
hesitate to aflect a growing dislike for his own seat, because 
it was not in his power to leave it to Ferdinand ; and he 
endeavoured to console that fortunate youth for his in- 
dispensable deprivation by mysterious intimations that he 
would, perhaps, find quite enough to do with his money in 
completing Armine Castle, and maintaining its becoming 
splendour. The sanguine Ferdinand returned to Malta 
with the conviction that he was his grandfather's heir ; and 
even Sir Ratcliffe was almost disposed to believe that his 
son's expectations were not without some show of proba- 
bility, when he found that Lord Grandison had absolutely 
ftimished him with the fands for the purchase of his com- 

Ferdinand was fond of his profession. He had entered 
it under favourable circumstances. He had joined a crack 
regiment in a crack garrison. Malta is certainly a delightful 
station. Its city, Valetta, equals in its noble architecture, 
if it even do not excel, any capital in Europe ; and although 
it must be confessed that the surrounding region is little 
better than a rock, the vicinity, nevertheless, of Barbaiy, 
of Italy, and of Sicily, presents exhaustless resources to 


tlie lovers of the highest order of natural beauty. If that 
feir Yaletta, with its streets of palaces, its picturesque forts 
and magnificent church, only crowned some green and 
azure island of the Ionian Sea, Corfu for instance, I really 
think that the ideal of landscape would be realised. 

To Ferdinand, who was inexperienced in the world, the 
dissipation of Malta, too, was delightful. It must be confessed 
that, under aU circumstances, the first burst of emancipation 
from domestic routine hath in it something fascinating. 
However you may be indulged at home, it is impossible to 
break the chain of childish associations ; it is impossible to 
escape from the feeling of dependence and the habit of sub- 
mission. Charming hour when you first order your own 
servants and ride your own horses, instead of your father's ! 
It is delightful even to kick about our own furniture ; and 
there is something manly and magnanimous in paying our 
own taxes. Young, lively, kind, accomplished, good-looking, 
and well-bred, Ferdinand Armine had in him all the elements 
of popularity ; and the novelty of popularity quite intoxi- 
cated a youth who had passed his life in a rural seclusion, 
where he had been appreciated, but not huzzaed. Ferdi- 
nand wa,s not only popular, but proud of being popular. 
He was popular with the Governor, he was popular with 
his Colonel, he was popular with his mess, he was popular 
throughout the garrison. Never was a person so popular 
as Ferdinand Armine. He was the best rider among them, 
and the deadliest shot; and he soon became an oracle at 
the billiard-table, and a hero in the racket-court. His re- 
fined education, however, fortunately preserved him from 
the fate of many other lively youths : he did not degenerate 
into a mere hero of sports and brawls, the genius of male 
revels, the arbiter of roistering suppers, and the Comus of 
a club. His boyish feeliugs had their play ; he soon exuded 
the wanton heat of which a public school would have served 
as a safety-valve. He returned to his books, his music, and 


his pencil. He became more quiet, but he was not less 
liked. If he lost some companions, he gained many Mends ; 
and, on the whole, the most boisterous wassailers were 
proud of the accomplishments of their comrade ; and often 
an invitation to a mess dinner was accompanied by a hint 
that Armine dined there, and that there was a chance of 
hearing him sing. Ferdinand now became as popular with 
the Governor's lady as with the Governor himself, was 
idolised by his Colonel's wife, while not a party throughout 
the island was considered perfect without the presence of 
Mr. Armine. 

Excited by his situation, Ferdinand was soon tempted to 
incur expenses which his income did not justify. The 
faxsility of credit afibrded him not a moment to pause ; 
everything he wanted was furnished him ; and until the 
regiment qxiitted the garrison he was well aware that a 
settlement of accounts was never even desiyed. Amid this 
imprudence he was firm, however, in his resolution never to 
trespass on the resources of his father. It was with diffi. 
culty that he even brought himself to draw for the allow- 
ance which Sir Ratcliffe insisted on making him ; and he 
would gladly have saved his father from making even this 
advance, by vague intimations of the bounty of Lord Gran- 
dison, had he not feared this conduct might have led to 
suspicious and disagreeable enquiries. It cannot be denied 
that his debts occasionally caused him anxiety, but they 
were not considerable; he quieted his conscience by the 
belief that, if he were pressed, his grandfather could scarcely 
refuse to discharge a few hundred pounds for his favourite 
grandson ; and, at all events, he felt that the ultimate re- 
source of selling his commission was still reserved for hiTn . 
If these vague prospects did not drive away compunction, 
the qualms of conscience were generally allayed in the 
evening assembly, iu which his vanity was gratified. At 
length he paid his first visit to England. That was a 


happy meeting. His kind father, his dear, dear mother, 
and the faithfiil Glastonbury, experienced some of the 
most transporting moments of their existence, when they 
beheld, with admiring gaze, the hero who returned to them. 
Their eyes were never satiated with beholding him ; they 
hnng upon his accents. Then came the triumphant visit 
to Grandison ; and then Ferdinand returned to Malta, in 
the full conviction that he was the heir to fifteen thousand 
a year. 

Among many other, there is one characteristic of capitals 
in which Valetta is not deficient : the facility with which 
young heirs apparent, presumptive, or expectant, can ob- 
tain any accommodation they desire. The terms; never 
mind the terms, who ever thinks of them ? As for Ferdi- 
nand Armine, who, as the only son of an old baronet, and 
the supposed ftiture inheritor of Armine Park, had always 
been looked upon by tradesmen with a gracious eye, he 
found that his popularity in this respect was not at all 
diminished by his visit to England, and its supposed conse- 
quences ; shght expressions, uttered on his return in the 
confidence of convivial companionship, were repeated, mis- 
represented, exaggerated, and circulated in all quarters. 
We like those whom we love to be fortunate. Everybody 
rejoices in the good luck of a popular character ; and soon 
it was generally understood that Ferdinand Armine had 
become next in the entail to thirty thousand a year and a 
peerage. Moreover, he was not long to wait for his inheri- 
tance. The usurers pricked up their ears, and such nume- 
rous proffers of accommodation and assistance were made to 
the fortunate Mr. Armine, that he really found it quite im- 
possible to refuse them, or to reject the loans that were 
almost forced on his acceptance. 

Ferdinand Armine had passed the Rubicon. He was in 
debt. If youth but knew the fatal misery that they are 
entailing on themselves the moment they accept a pecu- 


niary credit to which they are not entitled, bow they ■wonld 
start in their career! how pale they would turn! how ihey 
would tremble, and claep their handa in agony at the preci- 
pice on which they are disportmg ! Debt is the prolific 
mother of folly and of crime ; it taints the conrse of life in 
all its dreams. Hence so many unhappy marriages, so 
many prostituted pens, and venal politicians ! It hath a 
small beginning, but a giant's growth and strength. When 
we make the monster we make our master, who hannta ns 
at all hoTirs, and shakes his whip of scorpions for ever in 
oar sight. The slave hath do overseer so severe. FanatnB, 
when he signed the bond with blood, did not aecore a doom 
more terrific. Bat when we are joong we nrnat enjoy onr- 
selves. Tme ; and there are few things more gloomy thmi 
the recollection of a yonth that baa not been enjoyed. 
What prosperity of manhood, what splendour of old age, 
GUI compensate for it? Wealth is power; and in yoath, 
of all seasons of life, we require power, because we can 
enjoy everything that we can command. What, then, is to 
be done? I leave the question to the schoolmen, becanse 
I am convinced that to moralise with the inexperienced 
availeth nothing. 

The condnct of men depends upon tbdr temperament, 
not upon a bonch of mnsty mM nm B . Ko one had been 
educated with more care than Ferdinand Ai-minp ; in no 
heart had stricter precepts of moral conduct ever been in- 
stilled. But he was lively and impetuous, with a fiery 
imagination, violent passions, and a daring soul. Sangoine 
be vas as the day ; he could not believe in the night of 
^~~ r, and the impenetrable gloom that attends a career 
1 failed. The world was aU before him ; and he 
dat it Kkeayoung charger inbis first strife, confident 
le mnst rush to victory, and never dreaming of deatlL 
would I attempt to account for the extreme impra- 
if hif conduct on his return from England. He 'was 


confident in his ftiture fortunes ; lie was excited by the 
applause of the men, and the admiration of the women ; he 
determined to gratify, even to satiety, his restless vanity ; 
he broke into proftise expenditure ; he purchased a yacht ; 
he engaged a villa ; his racing-horses and his servants ex- 
ceeded all other establishments, except the Governor's, in 
breeding, in splendour, and in number. Occasionally wearied 
with the monotony of Malta, he obtained a short leave of 
absence, and passed a few weeks at N^aples, Palermo, and 
Rome, where he glittered in brilliant circles, and whence 
he returned laden with choice specimens of art and luxury, 
and followed by the report of strange and flattering adven- 
tures. Finally, he was the prime patron of the Maltese 
oper% and brought over a celebrated Prima Donna from 
San Carlo in his own vessel. 

In the midst of his career, Ferdinand received intelli- 
gence of the death of Lord Grandison. Fortunately, when 
he received it he was alone ; there was no one, therefore, to 
witness his blank dismay when he discovered that, after 
all, he was not his grandfather's heir! After a vast num- 
ber of trifling legacies to his daughters, and their husbands, 
and their children, and all his favourite friends, Lord Gran- 
dison left the whole of his property to his grand-daughter 
Katherine, the only remaining child of his son, who had 
died early in life, and the sister of the lately deceased 

What was to be done now ? His mother's sanguine mind, 
for Lady Armine broke to him the fatal inteUigence, already 
seemed to anticipate the only remedy for this * unjust will.' 
It was a remedy delicately intimated, but the intention fell 
upon a fine and ready ear. Yes ! he must marry ; he must 
marry his cousin; he must marry Katherine Grandison. 
Ferdinand looked around him at his magnificent rooms; 
the damask hangings of Tunis, the tall mirrors from Mar- 
seilles, the inlaid tables, the marble statues, and the alabaster 


Tsses that be lutd pnrchawd at Florence and at Borne, and 
the deUcate mats that he had himself imported from AlgisTB. 
He looked aronnd and he shm^cd his shonldeis : ' All thia 
mnst be paid for,' thonght he; 'and, alas! how mash 
more ! ' And then came across his mind a recollection of 
his &ther and his cares, and innocent Armine, and dear 
Ghstonbary, and his sacrifice. Ferdinand shook his head 
and sighed. 

* How have I repaid them,' thonght he. ' Thank God 
they know nothing. Thank Gcd they hare only to bear 
their own disappointments and their own privations ; bnt 
it is in Tain to mondise. The fiitnre, not the past, moBtfae 
my motto. To retreat is impossible ; I may yet advance 
and conquer. Katherine Grandison : only think of my little 
consin Eate for a wife ! They say that it is not tiie easiest 
task in the world to &n a lively flame in the bosom of a 
cOQSin. The lore of coosins is prorerlnally not of a veiy 
romantic character. 'Tia well I have not seen her moch in 
my life, and very little of late. Familiarity breeds con- 
tempt, they say, TVill she dare to despise me?' He 
glanced at the mirror. The inspection was not unsatis- 
factory. Plnnged in profonnd meditation, lie paced the 



■ti Captain. Armiae 

y w.-Ls at Hub &i* 

to En^bud ; nod. wit^ > 

of Ilia beingi 



land. This speedy departure was fortunate, because it 
permitted him to retire before the death of Lord Grandison 
became generallj known, and consequently commented 
upon and enquired into. Previous to quitting the garrison^ 
Ferdinand had settled his afi^drs for the time without the 
slightest difficulty, as he was still able to raise any money 
that he required. 

On arriving at Falmouth, Ferdinand learnt that his £Ekther 
and mother were at Bath, on a visit to his maiden aunty 
Miss Grandison, with whom his cousin now resided. As 
the regiment was quartered at Exeter, he was enabled in a 
very few days to obtain leave of absence and join them. 
In the first rapture of meeting all disappointment was for- 
gotten, and in the course of a day or two, when this senti- 
ment had somewhat subsided, Ferdinand perceived that the 
shock which his parents must have necessarily experienced 
was already considerably softened by the prospect in which 
they secretly indulged, and which various circumstances 
combined in inducing them to believe was by no means a 
visionaTy one. 

His cousin Katherine was about his own age ; mild, 

elegant, and pretty. Being £Eur, she looked extremely well 

in her deep mourning. She was not remarkable for the 

liveliness of her mind, yet not devoid of observation, 

although easily influenced by those whom she loved, and 

with whom she lived. Her maiden aunt evidently exercised 

a powerful control over her conduct and opinions; and 

Lady Armine was a favourite sister of this maiden aunt. 

"Without, therefore, apparently directing her will, there was 

no lack of eJQfort from this quarter to predispose Katherine 

in feivour of her cousin. She heard so much of her cousin 

Ferdinand, of his beauty, and his goodness, and his accom- 

pIiBhments, that she had looked forward to his arrival with 

fooKngs of no ordinary interest. And, indeed, if the opinions 

•nd sentiiQents of those with whom she lived could influ- 


ence, there was no need of anj artifice to predispose her in 
favonr of her cousin. Sir Katchffe and Lady Armine were 
wrapped up in their son. They seemed scarcely to have 
another idea, feehng, or thought in the world, but his 
existence and his felicity; and although their good sense 
had ever preserved them from the silly habit of nttering 
his panegyric in his presence, they amply compensated for 
this painfol restraint when he was away. Then he was 
ever the handsomest, the cleverest, the most accomplished, 
and the most kind-hearted and virtaons of his sex. For- 
tnnate the parents blessed with such a son ! thrice fortunate 
the wife blessed with such a husband ! 

It was therefore with no ordinary emotion that EZatherine 
Grandison heard that this perfect cousin Ferdinand had at 
length arrived. She had seen little of him even in his 
boyish days, and even then he was rather a hero in their 
Lilliputian circle. 

Ferdinand Armine was always looked up to at Grandison, 
and always spoken of by her grandfather as a very fine ' 
fellow indeed; a wonderfdlly fine fellow, his &vourite 
grandson, Ferdinand Armine : and now he had arrived. 
His knock was heard at the door, his step was on the stairs, 
the door opened, and certainly his first appearance did not 
disappoint his cousin Kate. So handsome, so easy, so 
gentle, and so cordial ; they were all the best friends in a 
moment. Then he embraced his father with such fervour, 
and kissed his mother with such fondness : it was evident 
that he had an excellent heart. His arrival, indeed, was a 
revolution. Their mourning days seemed at once to dis- 
appear ; and although they of course entered society very 
little, and never frequented any public amusement, it seemed 
to K!atherine that all of a sudden she lived in a round of 
delightful gaiety. Ferdinand was so amusing and so accom- 
plished ! He sang with her, he played with her ; he was 
always projecting long summer rides and long summer 


-walks. Then his conversation was so different from •very- 
thing to which she had ever listened. He had seen so 
many things and so many persons ; everything that was 
strange, and everybody that was Anions. His opinions 
were so original, his illustrations so apt and lively, his 
anecdotes so inexhaustible and sparkling ! Poor inex- 
perienced, innocent E^atherine ! Her cousin in four-and- 
twenty hours found it quite impossible to fall in love with 
her ; and so he determined to make her fall in love with 
him. He quite succeeded. She adored him. She did not 
believe that there was anyone in the world so handsome, 
so good, and so clever. No one, indeed, who knew Fer- 
dinand Armine could deny that he was a rare being ; but, 
had there been any acute and unprejudiced observers who 
had known him in his younger and happier hours, they 
would perhaps have remarked some difference in his cha- 
racter and conduct, and not a fiEbvourable one. He was 
indeed more brilliant, but not quite so interesting as in old 
days ; £a>r more dazzHng, but not quite so apt to charm. 
No one could deny his lively talents and his perfect breed- 
ing, but there was a restlessness about him, an excited and 
exaggerated style, which might have made some suspect 
that his demeanour was an effort, and that under a super- 
ficial glitter, by which so many are deceived, there was no 
little deficiency of the genuine and sincere. Katherine 
Grandison, however, was not one of those profound ob- 
servers. She was easily captivated. Ferdinand, who really 
did not feel sufficient emotion to venture uppn a scene, 
made his proposals to her when they were riding in a green 
lane : the sun just setting, and the evening star glittering 
through a vista. The lady blushed, and wept, and sobbed, 
and hid her fair and streaming face ; but the result was as 
satisfactory as our hero could desire. The young equestrians 
kept their friends in the crescent at least two hours for 
dinner, and then had no appetite for the repast when they 

F 2 


had arvived. Nevertheless the maiden aunt, although a 
very particular personage, made this day no complaint, and 
was evidently fer from being dissatisfied with anybody or 
anything. As for Ferdinand, he called for a tumbler of 
champagne, and secretly drank his own health, as the 
luckiest fellow of his acquaintance, with a pretty, amiable, 
and highbred wife, with all his debts paid, and the house 
of Armine restored. 



It was settled that a year must elapse from the death of 
Lord Grandison before the young couple could be united : 
a reprieve which did not occasion Ferdinand acute grief. 
In the meantime the Grandisons were to pass at least 
the autumn at Armine, and thither the united families 
proposed soon to direct their progress. Ferdinand, who 
had been nearly two months at Bath, and was a little 
wearied of courtship, contrived to quit that city before his 
friends, on the plea of visiting London, to arrange about 
selling his commission ; for it was agreed that he should 
quit the army. 

On his arrival in London, having spoken to his agent, 
and finding town quite empty, he set off immediately for 
Armine, in order that ho might have the pleasure of being 
there a few days without the society of his intended; 
celebrate the impending first of September ; and, especially, 
embrace his dear Glastonbury. For it must not be sup- 
posed that Ferdinand had forgotten for a moment this 
invaluable friend ; on the contrary, he had written to him 
several times since his arrival : always assuring him that 
nothing but important business could prevent him from 
instantly paying him his respects. 


It was with feelings of no common emotion, even of 
agitation, that Perdinand heheld the woods of his ancient 
home rise in tie distance, and soon the towers and 
turrets of Armine Castle. Those venerable bowers, that 
proud and lordly honse, were not then to pass away 
from their old and famous line ? He had redeemed 
the heritage of his great ancestry; he looked with un- 
mingled complacency on the magnificent landscape, once 
to him a source of as much anxiety as affection. What a 
change in the destiny of the Armines ! Their glory re- 
stored; his own devoted and domestic hearth, once the 
prey of so much care and gloom, ci-owned with ease and 
happiness and joy ; on all sides a career of splendour and 
feliciiy. And Jie had done all this ! What a prophet was 
his mother ! She had ever indulged the fond conviction 
that her beloved son would be their restorer. How wise 
and pious was the undeviating confidence of kind old 
Glastonbury in their fate ! With what pure, what heart- 
felt delight, would that faithful friend listen to his extra- 
ordinary communication ! 

His carriage dashed through the park gates as if the 
driver were sensible of his master's pride and exultation. 
Glastonbury was ready to welcome him, standing in the 
flower-garden, which he had made so rich and beautiful, 
and which had been the charm and consolation of many of 
their humbler hours. 

*My dear, dear father ! ' exclaimed Ferdinand, embracing 
him, for thus he ever styled his old tutor. 

But Glastonbury could not speak ; the tears quivered in 
his eyes and trickled down his faded cheek. Ferdinand 
led him into the house. 

* How well you look, dear father ! ' continued Ferdinand ; 
* you really look younger and heartier than ever. You re- 
ceived all my letters, I am sure ; and yours, how kind of 
you to remember and to write to me ! I never forgot you. 


my dear, dear friend. I never conld forget yotu Do you 
know I am the happiest fellow in the world ? I have the 
greatest news in the world to tell my Glastonbnry ! and 
we owe everything to yon, everything. What wonld Sir 
Batcliffe have been without you ? what should I have been ? 
Fancy the best news you can, dear Mend, and it is not so 
good as I have got to tell. You will rejoice, you will be 
delighted I We shall famish a castle ! by Jove we shall 
fhmish a castle ! We shall indeed, and-you shall build it ! 
No more gloom ; no more care. The Armines shaU hold 
their heads up again, by Jove they shall ! Dearest of men, 
I dare say you think me mad. I am mad with joy. How 
that Virginian creeper has grown ! I have brought you so 
many plants, my father ! a complete Sicilian Hortus Siccus. 
Ah, John, good John, how is your wife ? Take care of 
my pistol-case. Ask Louis; he knows all about every- 
tliing. Well, dear Glastonbury, and how have you been ? 
how is the old tower ? how are the old books, and the old 
staff, and the old arms, and the old everything P dear, dear 
Glastonbury ! ' 

While the carriage was unpacking, and the dinner-table 
prepared, the friends walked in the garden, and from thence 
strolled towards the tower, where they remained some time 
pacing up and down the beechen avenue. It was evi- 
dent, on their return, that Ferdinand had communicated 
his great intelligence. The countenance of Glastonbury 
was radiant with delight. Indeed, although he had dined, 
he accepted with readiness Ferdinand's invitation to repeat 
the ceremony; nay, he quaffed more than one glass of 
wine; and, I believe, even drank the health of every 
member of the united families of Armine and Grandison. 
It was late before the companions parted, and retired foir 
the night ; and I think, before they bade each other goocL 
night, they must have talked over every circumstance 
that had occurred in their experience since the birth of 





How delicious after a long absence to wake on a sonny 
moming and find ourselves at home! Ferdinand conld 
scarcely credit that he was really again at Armine. He 
started np in his bed, and rubbed his eyes and stared at 
the nuaccustoined, yet familiar sights, and for a moment 
Malta and the Boyal Fosileers, Bath and his betrothed, 
were all a dream; and then he remembered the visit of 
his dear mother to this very room on the eve of his first 
departure. He had returned ; in safety had he returned, 
and in happiness, to accomplish all her hopes and to reward 
her for all her solicitude. Never felt anyone more content 
than Ferdinand Armine, more content and more grateful. 

He rose and opened the casement ; a rich and exhilarat- 
ing perfume filled the chamber ; he looked with a feeling 
of delight and pride over the broad and beauti^ park; 
the tall trees rising and flinging their taller shadows over 
the bright and dewy turf, and the last mists clearing away 
from the distant woods and blending with the spotless sky. 
Everything was sweet ^nd still, save, indeed, the carol of 
the birds, or the tinkle of some restless bellwether. It was 
a rich autumnal mom. And yet with all the excitement 
of his new views in life, and the blissful consciousness of 
the happiness of those he loved, he could not but feel that 
a great change had come over his spirit since the days he 
was wont to ramble in this old haunt of his boyhood. Hia 
innocence was gone. Life was no longer that deep un- 
broken trance of duiy and of love fix>m which he had been 
roused to so much care ; and if not remorse, at least to so 
nuLch compunction. He had no secrets then. Existence 
vas not then a subterfuge, but a calm and candid state 


of serene enjoyment. Feelings then were not compromised 
for interests ; and then it was the excellent that was studied, 
not the expedient. ' Yet such I suppose is life,' murmured 
Ferdinand ; * we moralise when it is too late ; nor is there 
anything more silly than to regret. One event makes 
aaother : what we anticipate seldom occurs ; what we least 
expected generally happens ; and time can only prove which 
is most for our advantage. And surely I am the last per- 
son who should look grave. Our ancient house rises from, 
its ruins ; the beings I love most in the world are not only 
happy, but indebted to me for their happiness ; and I, I 
myself, with every gift of fortune suddenly thrown at my 
feet, what more can I desire ? Am I not satisfied ? "Why 
do I even ask the question ? I am sure I know not. It 
rises like a devil in my thoughts, and spoils everything. 
The girl is young, noble, and fair, and loves me. And her ? 
I love her, at least I suppose I love her. I love her at any 
rate as much as I love, or ever did love, woman. There is 
no great sacrifice, then, on my part ; there should be none ; 
there is none ; unless indeed it be that a man does not like 
to give up without a struggle all his chance of romance and 

* I know not how it is, but there are moments I almost 
wish that I had no father and no mother ; ay ! not a single 
Mend or relative in the world, and that Armine were sunk 
into the very centre of the earth. If I stood alone in the 
world methinks I might find the place that suits me ; now 
everythiag seems ordained for me, as it were, beforehand. 
My spirit has had no play. Something whispers me that, 
with all its flush prosperity, this is neither wise nor well. 
God knows I am not heartless, and would be gratefal ; and 
yet if life can afibrd me no deeper sympathy than I have 
yet experienced, I cannot but hold it, even with all its 
sweet reflections, as little better than a dull delusion.' 

While Ferdinand was thus moralising at the casement, 


Glastonbury appeared beneath ; and his appearance dissi- 
pated this gathering gloom. ' Let us breakfast together/ 
proposed Ferdinand. ' I have breakfested these two honrs,' 
replied the hermit of the gate. * I hope that on the first 
night of your return to Armiue you have proved auspicious 

'My bed and I are old companions,' said Ferdinand, 
*and we agreed very well. I tell you what, my dear 
Glastonbury, we will have a stroll together this morning 
and talk over our plans of last night. Go into the Hbrary 
and look over my sketch-books : you will find them on my 
pistol-case, and I will be with you anon.' 

In due time the Mends commenced their ramble. Fer- 
dinand soon became excited by Glastonbury's various sug- 
gestions for the completion of the castle ; and as for the 
old man himself, between his architectural creation and the 
restoration of the family, to which he had been so long 
devoted, he was in a rapture of enthusiasm, which afibrded 
an amusing contrast to his usual meek and subdued de- 

' Your grandfather was a great man,' said Glastonbury, 
who in old days seldom ventured to mention the name of 
the &inous Sir Ferdinand : ' there is no doubt he was a 
very great man. He had great ideas. How he would 
glory in our present prospects ! 'Tis strange what a strong 
confidence I have ever had in the destiny of your house. I 
felt sure that Providence would not desert us. There is no 
doubt we must have a portcullis.' 

•Decidedly, a portcullis,' said Ferdinand; *you shall 
make all the drawings yourself, my dear Glastonbury, and 
supervise everytliing. We will not have a single ana- 
chronism. It shall be perfect.' 

* Perfect,' echoed Glastonbury ; ' really perfect ! It shall 
be a perfect Gothic castle. I have such treasures for the 
"Work. AU the labours of my life have tended to this object. 


I have all the emblazoniiigs of your honse since the Con- 
quest. There shall be three hundred shields in the lialL 
I will paint them myself. Oh ! there is no place in the 
world like Arminc ! ' 

' Nothing,' said Ferdinand ; ' I have seen a great deal, 
but afber all there is nothing like Armine.' 

' Had we been bom to this splendour,' said Glastonbury, 
* we should have thought little of it. We have been mildly 
and wisely chastened. I cannot sufficiently admire the 
wisdom of Providence, which has tempered, by such a 
wise dispensation, the too-eager blood of your race.' 

* I should be sorry to pull down the old Place,' said 

* It must not be,' said Glastonbury ; * we have lived there 
happily, though humbly.' 

' I would we could move it to another part of the park, 
like the house of Loretto,' said Ferdinand with a smile. 

* We can cover it with ivy,' observed Glastonbury, look- 
ing somewhat grave. 

The morning stole away in these agreeable plans and 
prospects. At length the Mends parted, agreeing to meet 
again at dinner. Glastonbury repaired to his tower, and 
Ferdinand, taking his gun, sauntered into the surrounding 

But he felt no inclination for sport. The conversation 
with Glastonbury had raised a thousand thoughts over 
which he longed to brood. His life had been a scene of 
such constant excitement since his return to England, that 
he had enjoyed little opportunity of indulging in calm self- 
communion ; and now that he was at Armine, and alone, 
the contrast between his past and his present situation 
struck him so forcibly that he could not re&ain from fjall- 
ing into a reverie upon his fortunes. It was wonderftd, all 
wonderful, very, very wonderftd. There seemed indeed, as 
Glastonbury affirmed, a providential dispensation in the 


whole transaction. The fall of his family, the heroic, and, 
as it now appeared, prescient firmness with which his father 
had clnng, in all their deprivations, to his nnproductiYe 
patrimony, his own education, the extinction of his mother's 
house, his very foUies, once to him a cause of so much un- 
happiness, but which it now seemed were aU the time com- 
pelling him, as it were, to his prosperity ; all these and a 
thousand other traits and circumstances flitted over his 
mind, and were each in turn the subject of his manifold 
meditation. Willing was he to credit that destiny had 
reserved for him the character of restorer ; that duty in- 
deed he had accepted, and yet 

He looked around him as if to see what devil was 
whispering in his ear. He was alone. No one was there 
or near. Around him rose the silent bowers, and scarcely 
the voice of a bird or the hum of an insect disturbed the 
deep tranquillity. But a cloud seemed to rest on the fiedr 
and pensive brow of Ferdinand Armine. He threw him- 
self on the turf, leaning his head on one hand, and with 
the other plucking the wild flowers, which he as hastily, 
almost as fret&oJlj, flung away. 

'Conceal it as I will,' he exclaimed, 'I am a victim; 
disguise them as I may, all the considerations are worldly. 
There is, there must be, something better in tliis world 
than power and wealth and rank ; and surely there must 
be felicity more rapturous even than securing the happi- 
ness of a parent. Ah. ! dreams in which I have so oft and 
so fondly indulged, are ye, indeed, after all, but fantastical 
and airy visions? Is love indeed a delusion, or am I 
marked out from men alone to be exempted from its de- 
licious bondage ? It must be a delusion. All laugh at it, 
all jest abont it, all agree in stigmatising it the vanity of 
vanities. And does my experience contradict this harsh 
hut common fame ? Alas ! what have I seen or known to 
give the lie to this ill report ? No one, nothing. Some 


women I have met more beautiful, assuredly, than Kate, 
and many, many less fair ; and some have crossed my path 
with a wild and bnlliant grace, that has for a moment 
dazzled my sight, and perhaps for a moment lured me 
from my way. But these shooting stars have but glittered 
transiently in my heaven, and only made me, by their eva- 
nescent brilliancy, more sensible of its gloom. Let me 
believe then, oh ! let me of all men then believe, that the 
forms that inspire the sculptor and the painter have no 
models in nature; that that combination of beauty and 
grace, of fascinating intelligence and fond devotion, over 
which men brood in the soft hours of their young loneli- 
ness, is but the promise of a better world, and not the 
charm of this one. 

* But, what terror in that truth ! what despair ! what 
madness ! Yes ! at this moment of severest scrutiny, how 
profoundly I feel that life without love is worse than death ! 
How vain and void, how flat and fruitless, appear all those 
splendid accidents of existence for which men struggle, 
without this essential and pervading charm! What a 
world without a sun ! Yes ! without this transcendent sym- 
pathy, riches and rank, and even power and fame, seem to 
me at best but jewels set in a coronet of lead ! 

* And who knows whether that extraordinary being, of 
whose magnificent yet ruinous career this castle is in truth 
a fitting emblem ; I say, who knows whether the secret of 
his wild and restless course is not hidden in this same sad 
lack of love ? Perhaps while the world, the silly suiperficial 
world, marvelled and moralised at his wanton life, and 
poured forth their anathemas against his heartless selfish- 
ness, perchance he all the time was sighing for some soft 
bosom whereon to pour his overwhelming passion, even as 
I am ! 

' Nature ! why art thou beautifdl ? My heart requires 
not, imagination cannot paiut, a sweeter or a fairer scene 


than these snrroundiiig bowers. This azure vault of 
heaven, this golden sunshine, this deep and blending shade, 
these rare and fiagrant shrubs, yon grove of green and 
tallest pines, and the bright gliding of this swan-crowned 
lake; mj soul is charmed with all this beauty and this 
sweetness ; I feel no disappointment here ; mj mind does 
not here outrun reality ; here there is no cause to mourn 
over ungratified hopes and fanciful desires. Is it then my 
destiny that I am to be baffled only in the dearest desires 
of my heart ? ' 

At this moment the loud and agitated barking of his 
dogs at some little distance roused Ferdinand from his 
reverie. He called them to him, and soon one of them 
obeyed his summons, but instantly returned to his com- 
panion with such significant gestures, panting and yelping, 
that Ferdinand supposed that Basto was caught perhaps in 
some trap : so, taking up his gun, he proceeded to the dog's 

To his surprise, as he was about to emerge from a berceau 
on to a plot of turf, in the centre of which grew a large 
cedar, he beheld a lady in a ridisg-habit standing before 
the tree, and evidently admiring its beautiful proportions. 

Her countenance was raised and motionless. It seemed 
to hiTn that it was more radiant than the sunshine. He 
gazed with rapture on the dazzling brilliancy of her com- 
plexion, the delicate regularity of her features, and the 
large violet-tinted eyes, fringed with the longest and the 
darkest lashes that he had ever beheld. From her position 
her liat had fallen back, revealing her lofty and pellucid 
brow, and the dark and lustrous locks that were braided 
over her temples. The whole countenance combined that 
brilliant health and that classic beauty which we associate 
with the idea of some nymph tripping over the dew- 
bespangled meads of Ida^ or glancing amid the hallowed 
groves of Greece. Although the lady could scarcely have 


seen eighteeii snmmers, her stature was above the comnion 
height ; but language cannot describe the startling sym- 
metry of her superb figure. 

There is no love but love at first sight. This is the 
transcendent and surpassing offspring of sheer and unpol- 
luted sympathy. All other is the illegitimate result of 
observation, of reflection, of compromise, of comparison, of 
expediency. The passions that endure flash like the light- 
ning: they scorch the soul, but it is warmed for ever. 
Miserable man whose love rises by degrees upon the frigid 
morning of his mind ! Some hours indeed of warmth and 
lustre may perchance fiill to his lot; some moments of 
meridian splendour, in which he basks in what he deems 
eternal sunshine. But then how often overcast by the 
clouds of care, how often dusked by the blight of misery 
and misfortune ! And certain as the gradual rise of such 
affection is its gradual dech'ne, and melancholy set. Then, 
in the chill dim twilight of his soul, he execrates custom ; 
because ho has madly expected that feelings could be 
habitual that were not homogeneous, and because he has 
been guided by the observation of sense, and not by the 
inspiration of sympathy. 

Amid the gloom and travail of existence suddenly to 
behold a beautiful being, and as instantaneously to feel an 
overwhelming conviction that with that fair form for ever 
our destiny must be entwined ; that there is no more joy but 
in her joy, no sorrow but when she grieves ; that in her 
sigh of love, in her smile of fondness, hereafter is all bliss ; 
to feel our flaunty ambition fade away like a shrivelled 
gourd before her vision ; to feel fame a juggle and posterity 
a lie ; and to be prepared at once, for this great object to 
forfeit and fling away all former hopes, ties, schemes, views ; 
to violate in her favour every duty of society; this is a 
lover, and this is love ! Magnificent, sublime, divine senti- 
ment ! An immortal flame bums in the breast of that man 


-w^ho adores and is adored. He is an ethereal being. The 
accidents of earth touch him not. Revolutions of empire, 
changes of creed, mutations of opinion, are to him but the 
clouds and meteors of a stormy sky. The schemes and 
struggles of mankind are, in his thinking, but the anxieties 
of pigmies and the fantastical achievements of apes. No- 
thing can subdue him. He laughs alike at loss of fortune, 
loss of friends, loss of character. The deeds and thoughts 
of men are to him equally indifferent. He does not mingle 
in their paths of callous bustle, or hold himself responsible 
to the airy impostures before which they bow down. He 
is a mariner, who, in the sea of life, keeps his gaze fixedly 
on a single star ; and if that do not shine, he lets go the 
rudder, and glories when his barque descends into the bot- 
tomless gulf. 

Yes ! it was this mighty passion that now raged in the 
heart of Ferdinand Armine, as, pale and trembling, he with- 
drew a few paces from the overwhelming spectacle, and 
leant against a tree in a chaos of emotion. What had he 
seen ? What ravishing vision had risen upon his sight ? 
What did he feel ? What wild, what delicious, what mad- 
dening impulse now pervaded his frame ? A storm seemed 
Imaging in his soul, a mighty wind dispelling in its course 
the sullen clouds and vapours of long years. Silent he was 
indeed, for he was speechless ; though the big drop that 
quivered on his brow and the sHght foam that played upon 
his lip proved the diflGlcult triumph of passion over expres- 
sion. But, as the wind clears the heaven, passion even- 
tually tranquillises the soul. The tumult of his mind 
gradually subsided; the flitting memories, the scudding 
thoughts, that for a moment had coursed about in such 
wild order, vanished and melted away, and a feeling of 
bright serenity succeeded, a sense of beauty and of joy, and 
of hovering and circumambient happiness. 

He advanced, he gazed again ; the lady was still there. 


Changed indeed her position ; she had gathered a flower 
and was examining its beauty. 

* Henrietta ! ' exclaimed a manly voice from the adjoin- 
ing wood. Before she could answer, a stranger came 
forward, a man of middle age but of an appearance re* 
markably prepossessing. He was tall and dignified, feiir, 
with an aquiline nose. One of Ferdinand's dogs followed 
him barking. 

* I cannot find the gardener anywhere,' said the stranger; 
* I think we had better remount.' 

' Ah, me ! what a pity ! ' exclaimed the lady. 

' Let me be yonr guide,' said Ferdinand, advancing. 

The lady rather started ; the gentleman, not at all dis- 
composed, courteously welcomed Ferdinand, and said, * I 
feel that we are intruders, sir. But we were informed by 
the woman at the lodge that the family were not here at 
present, and that we should find her husband in the 

* The family are not at Armine,' replied Ferdinand ; * I 
am sure, however. Sir Eatclifie would be most happy for 
you to walk about the grounds as much as you please ; and 
as I am well acquainted with them, I should feel delighted 
to be your guide.' 

* You are really too courteous, sir,' replied the gentleman ; 
and his beautiful companion rewarded Ferdinand iviih. a 
smile like a sunbeam, that played about her countenance 
till it finally settled into two exquisite dimples, and re- 
vealed to him teeth that, for a moment, he believed to be 
even the most beautiful feature of that surpassing visage. * 

They sauntered along, every step developing new beauties 
in their progress and eliciting from his companions renewed 
expressions of rapture. The dim bowers, the shining glades, 
the tall rare trees, the luxuriant shrubs, the silent and 
sequestered lake, in turn enchanted themi, until at lengthv 
Ferdinand, who had led them with experienced taste 


througli all the most striking points of the pleasaunce, 
brought them before the walls of the castle. 

* And here is Armine Castle,' he said ; * it is little better 
than a shell, and yet contains something which you might 
like to see.' 

* Oh ! by all means,* exclaimed the lady. 

* But we are spoiling your sport,' suggested the gentle- 

* I can always kill partridges,' replied Ferdinand, laying 
down his gun ; * but I cannot always find agreeable com- 

So saying, he opened the massy portal of the castle and 
they entered the hall. It was a lofty chamber, of dimen- 
sions large enough to feast a thousand vassals, with a dais 
and a rich Gothic screen, and a gallery for the musicians. 
The walls were hung with arms and armour admirably 
arranged ; but the parti-coloured marble floor was so 
covered with piled-up cases of ftimiture that the general 
effect of the scene was not only greatly marred, but it was 
even difficult in some parts to trace a path. 

* Here,' said Ferdinand, jumping upon a huge case and 
running to the wall, *here is the standard of Ralph D'Ermyn, 
who came over with the Conqueror, and founded the family 
in England. Here is the sword of William D' Armyn, who 
signed Magna Charta. Here is the complete coat armour 
of the second Balph, who died before Ascalon. This case 
contains a diamond-hilted sword, given by the empress ta 
the great Sir Ferdinand for defeating the Turks ; and here 
is a Mameluke sabre, given to the same Sir Ferdinand by 
the Sultan for defeating the Empress. 

* Oh ! I have heard so much of that great Sir Ferdinand,' 
said the lady. * He must have been the most interesting 

* He was a marvellous being,' answered her guide, with 



a pecnliar look, 'and yet I know not whether his de- 
scendants have not cause to rue his genius/ 

' Oh ! never, never ! * said the lady ; * what is wealth to 
genius ? How much prouder, were I an Armine, should I 
be of such an ancestor than of a thousand others, even if 
they had lefb me this castle as complete as he wished it 
to be!' 

* Well, as to that,' replied Ferdinand, * I believe I am 
somewhat of your opinion ; though I fear he lived in too 
late an age for such order of minds. It would have been 
better for him perhaps if he had succeeded in becoming 
Eong of Poland.' 

' I hope there is a portrait of him,' said the lady ; * there 
is nothing I long so much to see.' 

* I rather think there is a portrait,' repHed her companion, 
somewhat drily. * We will try to find it out. Do not you 
think I make not a bad cicerone ? ' 

' Indeed, most excellent,' replied the lady. 

* I perceive you are a master of your subject,' replied 
the gentleman, thus affording Ferdinand an easy oppor- 
tunity of telling them who he was. The hint, however, 
was not accepted. 

* And now,' said Ferdinand, * we will ascend the stair- 

Accordingly they mounted a large spiral staircase which 
filled the space of a round tower, and was lighted from the 
top by a lantern of rich coloured glass on which were em- 
blazoned the arms of the family. Then they entered the 
vestibule, an apartment spacious enough for a saloon; 
which, however, was not fitted up in the Gothic style, but 
of which the painted ceiling, the gilded panels, and inlaid 
floor were more suitable to a French palace. The brilliant 
doors of this vestibule opened in many directions upon 
long suites of state chambers, which indeed merited the 
description of shells. They were nothing more : of many 


tlie flooring was not even laid down ; the walls of all were 
rongli and plastered. 

* Ah ! ' said the lady,.* what a pity it is not finished ! ' 

* It is indeed desolate,' observed Ferdinand ; * but here 
perhaps is something more to your taste.' So saying, he 
opened another door and nshered them into the picture 

It was a snperb chamber nearly two hundred feet in 
length, and contained only portraits of the family, or pic- 
tures of their achievements. It was of a pale green colour, 
lighted from the top ; and the floor, of oak and ebony, was 
partially covered with a single Persian carpet, of fanciful 
pattern and brilliant dye, a present from the Sultan to the 
great Sir Ferdinand. The earlier annals of the family were 
illustrated by a series of paintings by modem masters, 
representing the battle of Hastings, the siege of Ascalon, 
the meeting at Runi^nnede, the various invasions of France, 
and some of the most striking incidents in the wars of the 
Koses, in all of which a valiant Armyn prominently figured. 
At length they stood before the first contemporary portrait 
of the Armyn family, one of Cardinal Stephen Armyn, by 
an Italian master. This great dignitary was legate of the 
Pope in the time of the seventh Henry, and in his scarlet 
robes and ivory chair looked a papal Jupiter, not unworthy 
himself of wielding the thunder of the Vatican. From him 
the series of family portraits was unbroken ; and it was 
very interesting to trace, in this excellently arranged col- 
lection, the history of national costume. Holbein had com- 
memorated the Lords Tewkesbury, rich in velvet, and 
golden chains, and jewels. The statesmen of Elizabeth and 
James, and their beautiful and gorgeous dames, followed ; 
and then came many a gallant cavalier, by Vandyke. One 
admirable picture contained Lord Armine and his brave 
brothers, seated together in a tent round a drum, on which 

his lordship was apparently planning the operations of the 

a 2 


campaign. Then followed a long series of nnmemorable 
baronets, and their more interesting wives and daughters, 
touched by the pencil of Kneller, of Lely, or of Hudson ; 
squires in wigs and scarlet jackets, and powdered dames in 
hoops and farthingales. 

They stood before the crowning effort of the gallery, the 
masterpiece of Reynolds. It represented a fhll-length por- 
trait of a young man, apparently just past his minority. 
The side of the figure was alone exhibited, and the faco 
glanced at the spectator over the shoulder, in a favourite 
attitude of Vandyke. It was a countenance of ideal beauty. 
A prof asion of dark brown curls was dashed aside from a 
lofty forehead of dazzling brilliancy. The &ce was per- 
fectly oval ; the nose, though small was high and aquiline, 
and exhibited a remarkable dilation of the nostril; the curl- 
ing Hp was shaded by a very delicate mustachio ; and the 
general expression, indeed, of the mouth and of the large 
grey eyes would have been perhaps arrogant and impe- 
rious, had not the extraordinary beauty of the whole coun- 
tenance rendered it fascinating. 

It was indeed a picture to gaze upon and to return to ; 
one of those visages which, after having once beheld, haunt 
us at all hours and flit across our mind's eye unexpected 
and unbidden. So great was the effect that it produced 
upon the present visitors to the gallery, that they stood 
before it for some minutes in silence; the scrutinising 
glance of the gentleman was more than once diverted from 
the portrait to the countenance of his conductor, and the 
silence was eventually broken by our hero. 

* And what think you,' he enquired, * of the £5tmous Sir 
Ferdinand ? ' 

The lady started, looked at him, withdrew her glance, 
and appeared somewhat confused. Her companion re- 
plied, * I think, sir, I cannot err in believing that I am 
indebted for much courtesy to his descendant ? ' 


* I believe,' said Ferdinand, ' that I should not have 
mxLch trouble in proving my pedigree. I am generally 
considered an ugly likeness of my grandfather.' 

The gentleman smiled, and then said, * I hardly know 
whether lean siyle myself your neighbour, for I live nearly 
ten miles distant. It would, however, afford me sincere 
gratification to see you at Ducie Bower. I cannot welcome 
you in a castle. My name is Temple,' he continued, offer- 
ing his card to Ferdinand. * I need not now introduce you 
to my daughter. I was not unaware that Sir Ratcliffe 
Armine had a son, but I had understood he was abroad.' 

* I have returned to England within these two months,' 
replied Ferdinand, * and to Armine within these two days. 
I deem it fortunate that my return has afforded me an 
opportunity of welcoming you and Miss Temple. But you 
must not talk of our castle, for that you know is our foUy. 
Pray come now and visit our older and humbler dwelling, 
and take some refreshment after your long ride.' 

This offer was declined, but with great courtesy. They 
quitted the castle, and Mr. Temple was about to direct his 
steps towards the lodge, where he had left his own and his 
daughter's horses ; but Ferdinand persuaded them to return 
tihrough the park, which he proved to them very satisfac- 
torily must be the nearest way. He even asked permis- 
sion to accompany them ; and while his groom was saddling 
his horse he led them to the old Place and the fiower- 

* You mnst be very fatigued. Miss Temple. I wish that 
I could persuade you to enter and rest yourself.' 

* Indeed, no : I love flowers too much to leave them.' 

* Here is one that has the recommendation of novelty as 
well as beauty,' said Ferdinand, plucking a strange rose, 
and presenting it to her. ' I sent it to my mother from 

* You live amidst beauty.' 


* I think that I never i^emember Armine looking so well 
as to-day.* 

* A sylvan scene requires sunshine,' replied Miss Temple. 
* We have been most fortunate in our visit.' 

' It is something brighter than the sunshine that makes 
it so fair,' replied Ferdinand; but at this moment the 
horses appeared. 



*TotJ are well mounted,' said Mr. Temple to Ferdinand. 

* 'Tis a barb. I brought it over with me.' 

' 'Tis a beautifdl creature,' said Miss Temple. 

* Hear that, Selim,' said Ferdinand ; * prick up thine 
ears, my steed. I perceive that you are an accomplished 
horsewoman. Miss Temple. You know our country, I 
dare say, well ? ' 

*I wish to know it better. This is only the second 
summer that we have passed at Ducie.' 

* By the bye, I suppose you know my landlord, Captain 
Armine ? ' said Mr. Temple. 

* No,' said Ferdinand ; * I do not know a single person in 
the county, I have myself scarcely been at Armine for 
these five years, and my father and mother do not visit 

*What a beautiful oak!' exclaimed Miss Temple, de- 
sirous of turning the conversation. 

* It has the reputation of being planted by Sir Francis 
Walsingham,' said Ferdinand. * An ancestor of mine mar- 
ried his daughter. He was the father of Sir Walsingham, 
the portrait in the gallery with the white stick. You 
remember it ? ' 


* Perfectly : that beautiftil portrait ! It mnst be, at all 
events, a very old tree.' 

* There are few things more pleasing to me than an 
ancient place,' said Mr. Temple, 

* Doubly pleasing when in the possession of an ancient 
&mily,' added his daughter. 

* I fear such feelings are fast wearing away,' said Fer- 

* There will be a reaction,' said Mr. Temple. 

* They cannot destroy the poetry of time,' said the lady. 

* I hope I have no very inveterate prejudices,' said Fer- 
dinand ; * but I should be sorry to see Armine in any other 
hands than our own, I confess.' 

' I never would enter the park again,' said Miss Temple. 

* So &r as worldly considerations are concerned,' con- 
tinued Ferdinand, * it would perhaps be much better for us 
if we were to part with it.' 

* It must, indeed, be a costly place to keep up,' said Mr. 

* Why, as for that,' said Ferdinand, * we let the kine rove 
and the sheep browse where our fathers hunted the stag 
and flew their falcons. I think if they were to rise from 
their graves they would be ashamed of us.' 

* Nay ! ' said Miss Temple, * I think yonder cattle are 
very picturesque. But the truth is, anything would look 
well in such a park as this. There is such a variety of 

The park of Armine indeed differed materially from those 
vamped-up sheep-walks and ambitious paddocks which are 
now honoured with the title. It was, in truth, the old 
chase, and little shorn of its original proportions. It was 
many miles in circumference, abounding in hill and dale, 
and o£Eering much variety of appearance. Sometimes it 
was studded with ancient timber, single trees of extra- 
ordinary growth, and rich clumps that seemed coeval with 


the foundation of the family. Tracts of wild champaign 
succeeded these, covered with gorse and fern. Then came 
stately avenues of sycamore or Spanish chestnut, fragments 
of stately woods, that in old days doubtless reached the 
vicinity of the mansion house ; and these were in turn suc- 
ceeded by modem coverts. 

At length our party reached the gate whence Ferdinand 
had calculated that they should quit the park. He would 
willingly have accompanied them. He bade them farewell 
with regret, which was softened by the hope expressed by 
all of a speedy meeting. 

* I wish, Captain Armine,' said Miss Temple, * we had 
your turf to canter home upon.' 

* By the bye. Captain Armine,' said Mr. Temple, * cere- 
mony should scarcely subsist between country neighbours, 
and certainly we have given you no cause to complain of 
our reserve. As you are alone at Armine, perhaps you 
would come over and dine with us to-morrow. If you can 
manage to come early, we will see whether we may not 
contrive to kill a bird together ; and pray remember we 
can give you a bed, which I think, all things considered, it 
would be but wise to accept.* 

* I accept everything,' said Ferdinand, smiling ; * all your 
offers. Grood morning, my dearest sir ; good morning, M iss 

* Miss Temple, indeed ! ' exclaimed Ferdinand, when lie 
had watched them out of sight. * Exquisite, enchanting, 
adored being ! Without thee what is existence ? How 
dull, how blank does everything even now seem ! It is aa 
if the sun had just set ! Oh ! that form ! that radiant 
countenance ! that musical and thrilling voice ! Those 
tones still vibrate on my ear, or I should deem it all a 
vision ! Will to-morrow ever come ? Oh ! that I could 
express to you my love, my overwhelming, my absorbing, 
my burning passion ! Beautiful Henrietta ! Thou hast a 


name, methinks, I ever loved. Where am I ? what do I 
say ? what wild, what maddening words are these ? Am 
I not Ferdinand Armine, the betrothed, the victim ? Even 
now, methinks, I hear the chariot-wheels of my bride. 
Grod ! if she be there ; if she indeed be at Armine on my 
return : I'll not see her ; I'll not speak to them ; I'll fly. 
I'll cast to the winds all ties and duties ; I will not be 
dragged to the altar, a miserable sacrifice, to redeem, by 
my forfeited felicity, the worldly fortunes of my race. ! 
Armine, Armine ! she would not enter thy walls again if 
other blood but mine swayed thy fair demesne: and I, 
shall I give thee another mistress, Armine ? It would 
indeed be treason ! Without her I cannot live. Without 
her form bounds over this turf and glances in these 
arbours I never wish to view them. All the inducements 
to make the vrretched sacrifice once meditated then 
vanish; for ALrmine, without her, is a desert, a tomb, a 
helL I am &ee, then. Excellent logician ! But this 
woman : I am bound to her. Bound ? The word makes 
me tremble. I shiver : I hear the clank of my fetters. 
Am I indeed bound? Ay! in honour. Honour and 
love ! A contest ! Pah ! The Idol must yield to the 
Divinity ! ' 

With these wild words and wilder thoughts bursting 
from his lips and dashing through his mind ; his course as 
irregular and as reckless as his fancies ; now fiercely 
galloping, now pulling up into a sudden halt, Ferdinand 
at length arrived home ; and his quick eye perceived in 
a moment that the dreaded arrival had not taken place. 
Glastonbury was in the flower-garden on one knee before a 
vase, over which he was training a creeper. He looked up 
as he heard the approach of Ferdinand. His presence and 
benignant smile in some degree stilled the fierce emotions 
of his pupil. Ferdinand felt that the system of dissimula- 
tion must now commence ; besides, he was always carefiil 


to be most kind to Glastonbmy, He would not allow that 
any attack of spleen, or even illness, could ever justify a 
careless look or expression to that dear Mend. 

' I hope, mj dear father,' said Ferdinand, ' I am punctual 
to our hour ? ' 

' The sun-dial tells me,' said Glastonbury, * that you 
have arrived to the moment; and I rather think that 
yonder approaches a summons to our repast. I hope you 
have passed your morning agreeably ? ' 

* If aU days would pass as sweet, my fother, I should 
indeed be blessed.' 

' I, too, have had a fine morning of it. You must come 
to-morrow and see my grand emblazonry of the Batcliffe 
and Armine coats ; I mean it for the gallery.' With these 
words they entered the Place. 

'You do not eat, my child,' said Glastonbury to his 

' I have taken too long a ride perhaps,' said Ferdinand ; 
who indeed was much too excited to have an appetite, and 
so abstracted that anyone but Glastonbury would have long 
before detected his absence. 

*I have changed my hour to-day,' continued Glaston- 
buiy, * for the pleasure of dining with you, and I think to- 
morrow you had better change your hour and dine with me.' 

* By the bye, my dear father, you, who know -everything, 
do you happen to know a gentleman of the name of Temple 
in this neighbourhood ? ' 

* I think I heard that Mr. Ducie had let the Bower to a 
gentleman of that name.' 

* Do you know who he is ? ' 

' I never asked ; for I feel no interest except about pro- 
prietors, because they enter into my Couniy History. But 
I think I once heard that this Mr. Temple had been our 
minister at some foreign court. You give me a fine dinner 
and eat nothing yourself. This pigeon is savoury.' 


* I will trouble you. I think there once was a Henrietta 
Armine, my £5tther ? ' 

* The beantiM creature ! ' said Glastonbury, laying down 
bis knife and fork ; * she died young. She was a daughter 
of Lord Armine ; and the Queen, Henrietta Maria, was 
ber godmother. It grieves me much that we have no 
portrait of her. She was very fair, her eyes of a sweet 
light blue.' 

* Oh! no; dark, my father; dark and deep as the violet.' 

* My child, the letter- writer, who mentions her death, 
describes them as light blue. I know of no other record 
of her beauty.' 

* I wish they had been dark,' said Ferdinand, recovering 
himself; 'however, I am glad there was a Henrietta 
Armine ; 'tis a beautiful name.' 

< I think that Armine makes any name sound well,' said 
Glastonbury. * No more wine indeed, my child. Nay ! if 
I must,' continued he, with a most benevolent smile, ' I 
will drink to the health of Miss Gh:undison 1 ' 

* Ah ! ' exclaimed Ferdinand. 

* My child, what is the matter ? ' inquired Glastonbury. 
'A gnat, a fly, a wasp! something stung me,' said 


* Let me fetch my oil of liHes,' said Glastonbury ; * 'tis 
a speciflc' 

* Oh, no ! 'tis nothing, only a fly : sharp at the moment ; 
nothing more.' 

The dinner was over ; they retired to the library. Fer- 
dinand walked about the room restless and moody; at 
length he bethought himself of the piano, and, aflecting an 
anxiety to hear some old favourite compositions of Glas- 
tonbury, he contrived to occupy his companion. In time, 
however, his old tutor invited him to take his violoncello 
and join him in a concerto. Ferdinand of course complied 
with his invitation, but the result was not satisfactory. 


After a series of blunders, wluch were the natural result of 
his thoughts being occupied on other subjects, he was 
obliged to plead a headache, and was glad when he could 
escape to his chamber. 

Rest, however, no longer awaited him on his old pillow. 
It was at first delightful to escape from the restraint upon 
his reverie which he had lately experienced. He leant for 
an hour over his empty fireplace in mute abstraction. The 
cold, however, in time drove him to bed, but he could not 
sleep ; his eyes indeed were closed, but the vision of Hen- 
rietta Temple was not less apparent to him. He recalled 
every feature of her countenance, every trait of her con- 
duct, every word that she had expressed. The whole series 
of her observations, from the moment he had first seen her 
until the moment they had parted, were accurately re- 
peated, her very tones considered, and her very attitudes 
pondered over. Many were the hours that he heard strike ; 
he grew restless and feverish. Sleep would not be com- 
manded ; he jumped out of bed, he opened the casement, 
he beheld in the moonlight the Barbary rose-tree of which 
he had presented her a flower. This consoling spectacle 
assured him that he had not been, as he had almost ima- 
gined, the victim of a dream. He knelt down and invoked 
all heavenly and earthly blessings on Henrietta Temple 
and his love. The night air and the earnest invocation 
together cooled his brain, and l^ature soon delivered him, 
exhausted, to repose. 




Yes ! it is the morning. Is it possible ? Sliall he again 
behold her ? That form of surpassing beauty : that bright, 
that dazzling countenance ; again are they to bless his 
entranced vision ? Shall he speak to her again ? That 
musical and thrilling voice, shall it again sound and echo 
in his enraptured ear ? 

Ferdinand had reached Armine so many days before his 
calculated arrival, that he did not expect his family and 
the Grandisons to arrive for at least a week. What a 
respite did he not now feel this delay ! if ever he could 
venture to think of the subject at all. He drove it indeed 
from his thoughts ; the fascinating present completely 
engrossed his existence. He waited until the post arrived ; 
it brought no letters, letters now so dreaded ! He jumped 
upon his horse and galloped towards Ducie. 

Mr. Temple was the younger son of a younger branch of 
a noble family. Inheriting no patrimony, he had been 
educated for the diplomatic service, and the influence of 
his &jnily had early obtained him distinguished appoint^ 
ments. He was envoy to a German court when a change 
of ministry occasioned his recal, and he retired, after a 
long career of able and assiduous service, comforted by a 
pension and glorified by a privy-councillorship. He was 
an acute and accomplished man, practised in the world, 
with great self-control, yet devoted .to his daughter, the 
only offspring of a wife whom he had lost early and loved 
much. Deprived at a tender age of that parent of whom 
she would have become peculiarly the charge, Henrietta 
Temple found in the devotion of her father all that conso- 
lation of which her forlorn state was susceptible. She was 
not delivered over to the custody of a governess, or to the 


even less sympathetic supervision of relations. Mr. Temple 
never permitted his daughter to be separated from him ; 
he cherished her life, and he directed her education. Re- 
sident in a city which arrogates to itself, not without 
justice, the title of the German Athens, his pupil availed 
herself of all those advantages which were offered to her 
by the instruction of the most skilftil professors. Few 
persons were more accomplished than Henrietta Temple 
even at an early age; but her rare accomplishments 
were not her most remarkable characteristics. Nature, 
which had accorded to her that extraordinary beauty we 
have attempted to describe, had endowed her with great 
talents and a soul of sublime temper. It was often re- 
marked of Henrietta Temple (and the circumstance may 
doubtless be in some degree accounted for by the little 
interference and influence of women in her education) that 
she never was a girl. She expanded at once from a charm- 
ing child into a magnificent woman. She had entered life 
very early, and had presided at her father's table for a 
year before his recal from his mission. Few women in so 
short a period had received so much homage; but she 
listened to compliments with a careless though courteous 
ear, and received more ardent aspirations with a smile. 
The men, who were puzzled, voted her cold aiid heartless ; 
but men should remember that fineness of taste, as well as 
apathy of temperament, may account for an unsuccessfnl 
suit. Assuredly Henrietta Temple was not deficient in 
feeling ; she entertained for her father sentiments almost 
of idolatry, and those more intimate or dependent ac- 
quaintances best qualified to form an opinion of her cha- 
racter spoke of her always as a soul of infinite tenderness. 
Notwithstanding their mutual devotion to each other, there 
were not many points of resemblance between the charac- 
ters of Mr. Temple and his daughter ; she was remarkable 
for a frankness of demeanour and a simpliciiy yet strength 


of thouglit wliich contrasted with the artificial manners 
and the conventional opinions and conversation of her 
sire. A mind at once thoughtful and energetic permitted 
Henrietta Temple to form her own judgments ; and an 
artless candour, which her father never could eradicate 
fi:x)m her habit, generally impelled her to express them. It 
was indeed impossible even for him long to find fault with 
these ebullitions, however the diplomatist might deplore 
them ; for Nature had so embued the existence of this being 
with that indefinable charm which we call grace, that it 
was not in your power to behold her a moment without 
being enchanted. A glance, a movement, a sunny smile, 
a woyd of thrilling music, and all that was left to you was 
to adore. There was indeed in Henrietta Temple that rare 
and extraordinary combination of intellectual strength and 
physical softness which marks out the woman capable of 
exercising an irresistible influence over mankind. In the 
good old days she might have occasioned a siege of Troy 
or a battle of Actium. She was one of those women who 
make nations mad, and for whom a man of genius would 
willingly peril the empire of the world. 

So at least deemed Ferdinand Armine, as he cantered 
through the park, talking to himself, apostrophising the 
woods, and shouting his passion to the winds. It was 
scarcely noon when he reached Ducie Bower. This was a 
Palladian pavilion, situated in the midst of beautifal 
gardens, and surrounded by green hills. The sun shone 
brightly, the sky was without a cloud ; it appeared to him 
that he had never beheld a more graceful scene. It was a 
temple worthy of the divinity it enshrined. A fa9ade of 
four Ionic colunms fronted an octagon hall, adorned with 
statues, which led into a saloon of considerable size and 
fine proportion. Ferdinand thought that he had never in 
his life entered so brilliant a chamber. The lofty walls were 
coyered with an Indian paper of vivid fancy, and adorned 


wiih several pictnres which his practised eye assured him 
were of great merit. The room, without being inconve- 
niently crowded, was amply stored with furniture, every 
article of which bespoke a refined and luxurious taste : easy 
chairs of all descriptions, most inviting couches, cabinets 
of choice inlay, and grotesque tables covered with articles 
of vertu; all those charming infinite nothings, which a 
person of taste might some time back have easily collected 
during a long residence on the continent. A large lamp 
of Dresden china was suspended from the painted and 
gilded ceiling. The three tall windows opened on the 
gardens, and admitted a perfume so rich and various, that 
Ferdinand could easily believe the fair mistress, as she 
told him, was indeed a lover of flowers. A light bridge in 
the distant wood, that bounded the furthest lawn, indi- 
cated that a stream was at hand. What with the beauty 
of the chamber, the richness of the exterior scene, and the 
bright sun that painted every object with its magical 
colouring, and made everything appear even more fiur and 
brilliant, Ferdinand stood for some moments quite en- 
tranced. A door opened, and Mr. Temple came forward 
and welcomed him with cordialiiy. 

After they had passed a half-hour in looking at the 
pictures and in conversation to which they gave rise, Mr. 
Temple, proposing an adjournment to. luncheon, conducted 
Ferdinand into a dining-room, of which the suitable de- 
corations wonderfully pleased his taste. A subdued tinl^ 
pervaded every part of the chamber: the ceiling was- 
painted in grey tinted frescoes of a classical and festive 
character, and the side table, which stood in a recess sup* 
port^ by four magnificent colunms, was adorned with, 
choice Etruscan vases. The air of repose and stillness 
which distinguished this apartment was heightened by the 
vast conservatory into which it led, blazing with light and 
beauty, groups of exotic trees, plants of radiant tint, the 
sound of a fountain, and gorgeous forms of tropic birds. 


* How beautiful ! ' exclaimed Ferdinand. 

' 'Tis pretby,' said Mr. Temple, carving a pasty, * but we 
are very bumble people, and cannot vie witb tbe lords of 
Gotbic castles.' 

* It appears to me,' said Ferdinand, * tbat Ducie Bower is 
tbe most exquisite place I ever bebeld.' 

*If you bad seen it two years ago you would bave 
tbougbt differently,' said Mr. Temple; *I assure you I 
dreaded becoming its tenant. Henrietta is entitled to all 
tbe praise, as sbe took upon berself tbe wbole responsibility. 
Tbere is not on tbe banks of tbe Brenta a more dingy and 
desolate villa tban Ducie appeared wben we first came ; 
and as for tbe gardens, tbey were a perfect wilderness. 
Sbe made everytbing. It was one vast, desolate, and neg- 
lected lawn, used as a sbeep-walk wben we arrived. As 
for tbe ceilings, I was almost tempted to wbitewasb tbem, 
and yet you see tbey bave cleaned wonderftilly ; and, afber 
all, it only required a little taste and labour. I bave not 
laid out mucb money bere. I built tbe conservatory, to be 
sure. Henrietta could not live witbout a conservatory.' 

'Miss Temple is quite rigbt,' pronounced Ferdinand. 
' It is impossible to live witbout a conservatory.' 

At this moment tbe beroine of tbeir conversation entered 
tbe room, and Ferdinand turned pale. Sbe extended to 
bim ber band witb a graceful smile ; as be toucbcd it, be 
trembled from bead to foot. 

*You were not fatigued, I bope, by your ride, Miss 
Temple ? ' at lengtb be contrived to say. 

'Not in ike least! I am an experienced borsewoman* 
Papa and I take very long rides togetber.' 

As for eating, witb Henrietta Temple in tbe room, Ferdi- 
nand found tbat quite impossible. Tbe moment sbe ap- 
peared bis appetite vanisbed. Anxious to speak, yet 
deprived of bis accustomed fluency, be began to praise 



* You mtist see it,' said Miss Temple : ' shall we walk 
round the gronnds ? ' 

* My dear Henrietta,' said her father, * I dare say Cap- 
tain Armine is at this moment sufficiently tired ; besides, 
when he moves, he will like perhaps to take his gun ; you 
forget he is a sportsman, and that he cannot waste his 
morning in talking to ladies and picking flowers.' 

'Indeed, sir, I assure you,' said Ferdinand, 'there is 
nothing I like so much as talking to ladies and picking 
flowers ; that is to say, when the ladies have as fine taste 
as Miss Temple, and the flowers are as beautiful as those 
at Ducie.' 

* Well, you shall see my conservatory. Captain Armine,* 
said Miss Temple, ' and you shall go and kill partridges 
afterwards.' So saying, she entered the conservatory, and 
Ferdinand followed her, leaving Mr, Temple to his pasty. 

* These orange groves remind me of Palermo,' said Fer- 

* Ah ! ' said Miss Temple, * I have never been in the sweet 

* You seem to me a person bom to live in a Sicilian 
palace,' said Ferdinand, * to wander in perfumed groves, 
and to glance in a moonlight warmer than this sun.' 

* I see you pay compliments,' said Miss Temple, looking 
at him archly, and meeting a glance serious and soft. 

* Believe me, not to you.' 

* What do you think of this flower ? ' said Miss Temple, 
turning away rather quickly and pointing to a strange 
plant. * It is the most singular thing in the world : but if 
it be tended by any other person than myself it withers. 
Is it not droU ? ' 

* I think not,' said Ferdinand. 

' I excuse you for your increduliiy ; no one does believe 
it ; no one can ; and yet it is quite true. Our gardener 
gave it up in despair. I wonder what it can be.' 


*I think it mtist be some enchanted prince,' said Ferdi- 

* If I thought so, how I should long for a wand to eman- 
cipate him ! ' said Miss Temple. 

' I would break your wand, if you had one,' said Ferdi- 

« Why ? ' said Miss Temple. 

* Oh ! I don't know,' said Ferdinand ; * I suppose be- 
cause I beheve you are suiiciently enchanting without 

* I am bound to consider that most excellent logic,' said 
Miss Temple. 

* Do you admire my fountain and my birds ? ' she con- 
tinned, after a short pause. ^ After Armine, Ducie appears 
a little tawdry toy.' 

* Ducie is Paradise,' said Ferdinand. * I should like to 
pass my life in this conservatory.' 

* As an enchanted prince, I suppose ? ' said Miss Temple. 

* Exactly,' said Captain Armine ; * I would willingly this 
instant become a flower, if I were sure that Miss Temple 
would cherish my existence.' 

* Cut off your tendrils and drown you with a watering- 
pot,' said Miss Temple ; * you really -are very Sicilian in 
your conversation. Captain Armine.' 

* Come,' said Mr. Temple, who now joined them, * if you 
really should like to take a stroll round the grounds, I will 
order the keeper to meet us at the cottage.' 

* A very good proposition,' said Miss Temple. 

* But you must get a bonnet, Henrietta ; I must forbid 
your going out uncovered.' 

* "No, papa, this will do,' said Miss Temple, taking a hand- 
kerchief, twisting it round her head, and tying it under her 

* Tou look like an old woman, Henrietta,' said her father, 




* I shall not say what you look like, Miss Temple,' said 
Captain Armine, with a glance of admiration, * lest you 
should think that I was this time even talking Sicilian.' 

* I reward you for your forbearance with a rose,' said 
Miss Temple, plucking a flower. ' It is a return for your 
beautiful present of yesterday.' 

Ferdinand pressed the gift to his lips. 

They went forth ; they stepped into a Paradise, where 
the sweetest flowers seemed grouped in every combination 
of the choicest forms ; baskets, and vases, and beds of in- 
finite fancy. A thousand bees and butterflies filled the air 
with their glancing shapes and cheerful music, and the 
birds from the neighbouring groves joined in the chorus of 
melody. The wood walks through which they now ram- 
bled admitted at intervals glimpses of the ornate landscape, 
and occasionally the view extended beyond the enclosed 
limits, and exhibited the clustering and embowered roofs 
of the neighbouring village, or some woody hill studded 
with a farmhouse, or a distant spire. As for Ferdinand, 
he strolled along, full of beautiful thoughts and thrilling 
fancies, in a dreamy state which had banished all recollec- 
tion or consciousness but of the present. He was happy ; 
positively, perfectly, supremely happy. He was happy for 
the first time in his life. He had no conception that life 
could afibrd such bliss as now filled his being. What a 
chain of miserable, tame, factitious sensations seemed the 
whole course of his past existence. Even the joys of yes- 
terday were nothing to these ; Armine was associated with 
too much of the commonplace and the gloomy to realise 
the ideal in which he now revelled. But now all circum- 
stances contributed to enchant him. The novelty, the 
beauty of the scene, harmoniously blended with his passion. 
The sun seemed to him a more biilliant sun than the orb 
that illumined Armine ; the sky more clear, more pure, more 
odorous. There seemed a magic sympathy in the trees 


and every flower reminded him of liis mistress. And then 
he looked around and beheld her. Was he positively 
awake ? Was he in England ? Was he in the same globe 
in which he had hitherto moved and acted ? What was 
this entrancing form that moved before him ? Was it in- 
deed a woman ? 

dea cert& ! 


That voice, too, now wilder than the wildest bird, now low 
and hnshed, yet always sweet ; where was he, what did he 
listen to, what did he behold, what did he feel ? The pre- 
sence of her father alone restrained him from falling on his 
knees and expressing to her his adoration. 

At length our friends arrived at a picturesque and ivy- 
grown cottage, where the keeper, with their guns and dogs, 
awaited Mr. Temple and his guest. Ferdinand, although 
a keen sportsman, beheld the spectacle with dismay. He 
execrated, at the same time, the existence of partridges and 
the invention of gunpowder. To resist his fate, however, 
was impossible ; he took his gun and turned to bid his 
hostess adieu. 

^ I do not like to quit Paradise at all,' he said in a low 
voice : * must I go ? ' 

' Oh ! certainly,' said Miss Temple. * It will do you a 
great deal of good.' 

Never did anyone at first shoot more wildly. In time, 
however, Ferdinand sufficiently rallied to recover his repu- 
tation with the keeper, who, from his first observation, 
began to wink his eye to his son, an attendant bush-beater, 
and occasionally even thrust his tongue inside his cheek, a 
significant gesture perfectly understood by the imp. * For 
the life of me, Sam,' he afterwards profoundly observed, 
* I couldn't make out this here Captain by no manner of 
means whatsomever. At first I thought as how he was 
going to put the muzzle to his shoulder. Hang me if ever 
I see sich a gentleman. He missed everything ; and at 


last if he didn't hit the longest flying shots without taking 
aim. Hang me if ever I see sich a gentleman. He hit 
everything. That ere Captain puzzled me, surely.* 

The party at dinner was increased by a neighbouring 
squire and his wife, and the rector of the parish. Ferdi- 
nand was placed at the right hand of Miss Temple. The 
more he beheld her the more beautiful she seemed. He 
detected every moment some charm before unobserved. It 
seemed to him thab he never was in such agreeable society, 
though, sooth to say, the conversation was not of a very 
brilliant character. Mr. Temple recounted the sport of the 
morning to the squire, whose ears kindled at a congenial 
subject, and every preserve in the county was then discussed^ 
with some episodes on poaching. The rector, an old gen- 
tleman, who had dined in old days at Armine Place, re- 
minded Ferdinand of the agreeable circumstance, sanguine 
perhaps that the invitation might lead to a renewal of his 
acquaintance with that hospitable board. He was padn- 
ftdly profuse in his description of the public days of the 
famous Sir Ferdinand. From the service of plate to the 
thiriy servants in livery, nothing was omitted. 

* Our friend deals in Arabian tales,' whispered Ferdinand 
to Miss Temple ; ' you can be a witness that we live quietly 
enough now.' 

* I shall certainly never forget my visit to Armine,' re- 
plied Miss Temple 5 * it was one of the agreeable days of 

* And that is saying a great deal, for I think your life 
must have abounded in agreeable days.' 

* I cannot indeed lay any claim to that misery which 
makes many people interesting,' said Miss Temple ; * I am 
a very commonplac person, for I have been always 

When the ladies withdrew there appeared but little in- 
clination on the part of the squire, and the rector to follow 


their ei^ample; and Captain Armine, therefore, soon lefb 
Mr. Temple to Ms fate, and escaped to the drawing-room. 
He glided to a seat on an ottoman, by the side of his 
hostess, and listened in silence to the conversation. What 
a conversation ! At any other time, under any other cir- 
ciunstances, Ferdinand would have been teased and wearied 
with its commonplace current : all the duU detail of county 
tattle, in which the squire's lady was a proficient, and with 
which Miss Temple was too highly bred not to appear to 
sympathise; and yet the conversation, to Ferdinand, ap- 
peared quite charming. Every accent of Henrietta's 
sounded like wit ; and when she bent her head in assent to 
her companion's obvious deductions, there was about each 
movement a grace so ineffable, that Ferdinand could have 
sat in silence and listened, entranced, for ever : and occa- 
sionally, too, she turned to Captain Armine, and appealed 
on some point to his knowledge or his taste. It seemed to 
him that he had never listened to sounds so sweetly thril- 
ling as her voice. It was a birdlike burst of music, that 
well became the sparkling sunshine of her violet eyes. 

His late companions entered. Ferdinand rose from his 
seat ; the windows of the saloon were open ; he stepped 
forth into the garden. He felt the necessity of being a 
moment alone. He proceeded a few paces beyond the ken 
of man, and then leaning on a sfcatue, and burying his face 
in his arm, he gave way to irresistible emotion. What 
wild thoughts dashed through his impetuous soul at that 
instant, it is difficult to conjecture. Perhaps it was passion 
that inspired that convulsive reverie ; perchance it might 
have been remorse. Did he abandon himself to those novel 
sentiments which in a few brief hours had changed all his 
aspirations and coloured his whole existence ; or was he 
tortured by that dark and perplexing fature, from which 
his imagination in vain struggled to extricate him ? 

He was roused from his reverie, brief but tumultuous, by 


the note of music, and then by the sound of a human voica 
The stag detecting the huntsman's horn could not have 
started with more wild emotion. But one fair organ could 
send forth that voice. He approached, he listened; the 
voice of Henrietta Temple floated to him on the air, breath- 
ing with a thousand odours. In a moment he was at her 
side. The squire's lady was standing by her ; the gentle- 
men, for a moment arrested from a poHtical discussion, 
formed a group in a distant part of the room, the rector 
occasionally venturing in a practised whisper to enforce a 
disturbed argument. Ferdinand glided in unobserved by 
the fair performer. Miss Temple not only possessed a 
voice of rare tone and compass, but this delightM gift of 
nature had been cultivated with refined art. Ferdinand, 
himself a musician, and passionately devoted to vocal me- 
lody, listened with unezaggerated rapture. 

' Oh ! beautiful ! ' exclaimed he, as the songstress 

* Captain Armine ! * cried Miss Temple, looking round 
with a wild, bewitching smile. * I thought you were medi- 
tating in the twilight.' 

* Your voice summoned me.' 

* You care for music ? ' 

* For little el^e.' 

* You sing ? ' 
« I hum.' 

* Try this.' 

* With you?' 

Ferdinand Armine was not unworthy of singing with 
Henrietta Temple, His mother had been his able instruc- 
tress in the art even in his childhood, and his frequent resi- 
dence at Naples and other parts of the south had afforded 
him ample opportunities of perfecting a talent thus early 
cultivated. But to-night the love of something beyond 
nis art inspired the voice of Ferdinand. Singing with 



Henrietta Temple, lie poured forth to lier in safety all the 
passion which raged in his soul. The squire's lady looked 
confused ; Henrietta herself grew pale ; the politicians 
ceased even to whisper, and advanced from their comer to 
the instrument ; and when the duet was terminated, Mr. 
Temple offered his sincere congratulations to his guest, 
Henrietta also turned with some words of commendation 
to Ferdinand ; but the words were faint and confiised, and 
finally requesting Captain Armine to favour them by sing- 
ing alone, she rose and vacated her seat. 

Terdinand took up the guitar, and accompanied himself 
to a Neapolitan air. It was gay and festive, a Bitomella 
which might summon your mistress to dance in the moon- 
light. And then, amid many congratulations, he offered 
the guitar to Miss Temple. 

^No one will listen to a simple melody after anything so 
brilliant,' said Miss Temple, as she touched a string, and^ 
after a slight prelude, sang these words : — 


Yes, weeping is madness. 

Away with this tear, 
Let no sign of sadness 
Betray the wild anguish I fear. 
When we meet him to-night, 

Be mate then my heart I 
And my smile be as bright, 
As if we were never to part. 

Girl ! give me the mirror 

That said I was fair ; 
Alas ! fatal error, 
This picture reveals my despair. 
Smiles no longer can pass 

0*er this faded brow, 
And I shiver this glass, 
lake his love and his fragile vow ! 

* The music,' said Ferdinand, full of enthusiasm, * is * 

* Henrietta's/ replied her father. 


* And the words ? ' 

* Were found in my canary's cage,' said Henrietta Temple, 
rising and putting an end to the conversation. 



The squire's carriage was announced, and then came his 
lady's shawl. How happy was Ferdinand when he recol- 
lected that he was to remain at Ducie. Remain at Ducie ! 
Remain under the same roof as Henrietta Temple. What 
bHss ! what ravishing bHss ! All his Hfe, and his had not 
been a monotonous one ; it seemed that all his life could 
not afford a situation so adventurous and so sweet as this. 
Now they have gone. The squire and his lady, and the 
worthy rector who recollected Armine so well ; they hav& 
all departed, all the adieus are uttered ; after this little and. 
unavoidable bustle, silence reigns in the saloon of Ducie. 
Ferdinand walked to the window. The moon was up ; the 
air was sweet and hushed; the landscape clear, thougla 
soft. Oh ! what would he not have given to have strolled 
in that garden with Henrietta Temple, to have poured fortk 
his whole soul to her, to have told her how wondrous faia 
she was, how wildly bewitching, and how he loved her, 
how he sighed to bind his fate with hers, and Hve for ever 
in the brilliant atmosphere of her grace and beauty. 

* Good night, Captain Armine,' said Henrietta Temple. 

He turned hastily round, he blushed, he grew pale. There 
she stood, in one hand a Hght, the other extended to her 
father's guest. He pressed her hand, he sighed, he looked 
confdsed ; then suddenly letting go her hand, he walked 
Quickly towards the door of the saloon, which he opened 
that she might retire. 


* The happiest day of my life has ended,' he muttered. 

* You are so easily content then, that I think you must 
always be happy.' 

* I fear I am not so easily content as you imagine.' 

She has gone. Hours, many and long hours, must elapse 
before he sees her again, before he again listens to that 
music, watches that airy grace, and meets the bright flash- 
ing of that fascinating eye. What misery was there in 
this idea ? How little had he seemed hitherto to prize the 
joy of being her companion. He cursed the hours which 
had been wasted away from her in the morning's sport ; he 
blamed himself that he had not even sooner quitted the 
dining-room, or that he had left the saloon for a moment, 
to commune with his own thoughts in the garden. With 
diflSiculty he restrained himself from re-opening the door, 
to listen for the distant sound of her footsteps, or catch, 
perhaps, along some corridor, the fading echo of her voice. 
But Ferdinand was not alone ; Mr. Temple still remained. 
That gentleman raised his face £rom the newspaper as 
Captain Armine advanced to him ; and, after some obser- 
vations about the day's sport, and a hope that he would 
repeat his trial of the manor to-morrow, proposed their 
retirement. Ferdinand of course assented, and in a moment 
he was ascending with his host the noble and Italian stair- 
case : and he then was ushered from the vestibule into his 

His previous visit to the chamber had been so hurried, 
that he had only made a general observation on its appear- 
ance. Little inclined to slumber, he now examined it more 
critically. In a recess was a French bed of simple furni- 
ture. On the walls, which were covered with a rustic paper, 
were suspended several drawings, representing views in the 
Saxon Switzerland. They were so bold and ivpirited that 
they arrested attention ; bat the quick vya of Ferdinand 
instantly detected the initialB of the artist in the comer. 


They were letters that made his heart tremble, as he gazed 
■with admiring fondness on her performances. Before a 
sofa, covered with a chintz of a corresponding pattern with 
the paper of the walls, was placed a small French table, on 
which were writing materials ; and his toilet- table and his 
mantelpiece were profusely ornamented with rare flowers ; 
on all sides were symptoms of female taste and feminine 

Ferdinand carefully withdrew from his coat the flower 
that Henrietta had given him in the morning, and which 
he had worn the whole day. He kissed it, he kissed it more 
than once ; he pressed its somewhat faded form to his lips 
with cautious delicacy ; then tending it with the utmost 
care, he placed it in a vase of water, which holding in his 
hand, he threw himself into an easy chair, with his eyes 
fixed on the gift he most valued in the world. 

An hour passed, and Ferdinand Armine remained fixed, 
in the same position. But no one who beheld that beautifrtl 
and pensive countenance, and the dreamy softness of thsfb 
large grey eye, could for a moment conceive that his thoughts 
were less sweet than the object on which they appeared ix5 
gaze. No distant recollections disturbed him now, oo 
memory of the past, no fear of the future. The delicioiis 
present monopolised his existence. The ties of duty, ihe 
claims of domestic affection, the worldly considerations that 
by a cruel dispensation had seemed, as it were, to taint even 
his innocent and careless boyhood, even the urgent appeals 
of his critical and perilous situation ; all, all were forgotten 
in one intense delirium of absorbing love. 

Anon he rose from his seat, and paced his room for some 
minutes, with his eyes fixed on the ground. Then throwing 
off" his clothes, and taking the flower from the vase, which 
he had previously placed on the table, he deposited it ia 
his bosom. 'Beautiful, beloved flower,' exclaimed he; 
* thufl, thus will I win and wear your mistress ! ' 




Restless are the dreams of tlie lover that is yonng. Fer- 
dinand Armine started awake from the agony of a terrible 
slumber. He had been walking in a garden with Henrietta 
Temple, her hand was clasped in his, her eyes fixed on the 
ground, as he whispered delicious words. His face was 
flushed, his speech panting and low. Gently he wound his 
vacant arm roond her graceful form ; she looked up, her 
speaking eyes met his, and their trembling lips seemed 
about to cling into a — 

When lo ! the splendour of the garden fkded, and all 
seemed changed and dim ; instead of the beautiful arched 
walks, in which a moment before they appeared to wander, 
it was beneath the vaulted roof of some temple that they 
now moved ; instead of the bed of glowing flowers from 
which he was about to pluck an oflering for her bosom, an 
altar rose, from the centre of which upsprang a quick and 
lurid tongue of flre. The dreamer gazed upon his com- 
panion, and her form was tinted with the dusky hue of the 
flame, and she held to her countenance a scarf, as if op- 
pressed by the unnatural heat. Great fear suddenly came 
over him. With haste, yet with tenderness, he himself 
"withdrew the scarf from the face of his companion, and this 
movement revealed the visage of Miss, Grandison. 

Ferdinand Armine awoke and started up in his bed. 
Before him still appeared the unexpected figure. He 
jumped out of bed, he gazed upon the form with staring 
eyes and open mouth. She was there, assuredly she was 
there ; it was Elatherine, Katherine his betrothed, sad and 
reproachful. The figure faded before him ; he advanced 
with outstretched hand ; in his desperation he determined 
to clutch the escaping form : and he found in his grasp his 


dressing-gown, whicli he had thrown over the back of a 

' A dream, and but a dream, after all,' he mnttered to 
himself; * and yet a strange one.' 

His brow was heated ; he opened the casement. It was 
still night ; the moon had vanished, but the stars were still 
shining. He recalled with an effort the scene with which 
he had become acquainted yesterday for the first time. 
Before him, serene and still, rose the bowers of Dncie. And 
their mistress ? That angelic form whose hand he had 
clasped in his dream, was not then merely a shadow. She 
breathed, she lived, and under the same roof. Henrietta 
Temple was at this moment under the same roof as himself: 
and what were her slumbers? Were they wild as his own, 
or sweet and innocent as herself? Did his form flit over 
her closed vision at this charmed hour, as hers had visited 
his ? Had it been scared away by an apparition as awfiol? 
Bore anyone to her the same relation as Elatherine Ghwidi- 
son to him ? A fearfal surmise, that had occurred to him 
now for the first time, and which it seemed could never i^ain 
quit his brain. The stars faded away, the breath of mom 
was abroad, the chant of birds arose. Exhausted in body 
and in mind, Ferdinand Armine fiung himself upon his bed, 
and soon was lost in slumbers undisturbed as the tomb. 




FERDmAND's servant, whom he had despatched the previous 
evening to Armine, returned early with his master's letters; 
one firom his mother, and one from Miss Grandison. They 
were aU to arrive at the Place on the day after the morrow. 


Ferdinand opeiied these epistles with a trembling hand. 
The sight of Katherine's, his Katherine's, handwriting was 
afanost as terrible as his dream. It recalled to him, with a 
dreadfol reaUty, his aetnal situation, which he had driven 
firom his thonghts. He had quitted his family, his family 
who were so devoted to him, and whom he so loved, happy, 
nay, triomphant, a pledged and rejoicing bridegroom. 
What had occurred during the last eight-and-forty hours 
seemed completely to have changed all his feelings, all his 
wishes, all his views, all his hopes ! He had in that in* 
terval met a single human being, a woman, a girl, a young 
and innocent girl ; he had looked upon that girl and listened 
to her voice, and his soul was changed as the earth by the 
suniise. As lying in his bed he read these letters, and 
moBed over their contents, and all the thoughts that they 
Buggested, the strangeness of life, the mystery of human 
natme, were painfully impressed upon him. His melan- 
choly &ther, his fond and confiding mother, the devoted 
Glasixmbuiy, all the mortifying circumstances of his illus- 
tnoQs race, rose in painful succession before him. Nor 
ooold lie forget his own wretched follies and that fatal visit 
to Bath, of which the consequences clanked upon his 
Bttemory Eke degrading and disgraceful fetters. The burden 
of existence seemed intolerable. That domestic love which 
h&d so solaced his existence, recalled now only the most 
psinfol associations. In the wildness of his thoughts he 
™iied himself alone in the world, to struggle with his fate 
Mid mould his fortunes. He felt himself a slave and a 
sacrifice. He cursed Armine, his ancient house, and his 
Ittoken fortunes. He felt that death was preferable to life 
^thout Henrietta Temple. But even supposing that he 
could extricate himself from his rash engagement ; even 
admitting that all worldly considerations might be thrown 
aside, and the pride of his father, and his mother's love, 
and Glastonbury's pure hopes, might all be outraged; what 


diance, what hope was there of obtainiiig his great object? 
What was he, what was he, Ferdinand Armine, free as the 
air from the claims of Miss Grandison, with all sense of duty 
rooted ont of his once sensitive bosom, and existing only 
for the gratification of his own wild fancies ? A beggar, 
worse than a beggar, without a home, without the possi- 
bility of a home to offer the lady of his passion ; nay, not 
even secure that the harsh process of the law might not 
instantly claim its victim, and he himself be hurried from 
the altar to the gaol ! 

Moody and melancholy, he repaired to the saloon; he 
beheld Henrietta Temple, and the cloud left his brow, and 
lightness came to his heart. Never had she looked so 
beautifril, so fresh and bright, so like a fair flower with the 
dew upon its leaves. Her voice penetrated his soul ; her 
sunny smile warmed his breast. Her father greeted him too 
with kindness, and inquired after his slumbers, which he 
assured Mr. Temple had been satisfactory. 

* I find,* continued Mr. Temple, * that the post has brought 
me some business to-day which, I fear, claims the morn- 
ing to transact; but I hope you will not forget your 
promise. The keeper will be ready whenever you summon 

Ferdinand muttered something about trouble and intru- 
sion, and the expected arrival of his family ; but Miss 
Temple begged him to accept the offer, and re^isal was 

After breakfast Mr. Temple retired to his library, and 
Ferdinand found himself alone for the first time with Hen- 
rietta Temple. 

She was copying a miniature of Charles the First. Fer- 
dinand looked over her shoulder. 

* A melancholy countenance ! ' he observed. 
' It is a favourite one of mine,' she replied. 

* Yet you are always gay,' 


* Always.' 

* I envy you, Miss Temple.* 

* What, are you melancholy ? ' 
*I have every cause.' 

* Indeed, I should have thought the reverse.' 

* I look upon myself as the most unfortunate of human 
beings,' replied Ferdinand. 

He spoke so seriously, in a tone of such deep and bitter 
feeling, that Miss Temple could not resist looking up at her 
companion. His countenance was gloomy. 

*You surprise me,' said Miss Temple ; *I think that few 
people ought to be unhappy, and I rather suspect fewer are 
than we imagine.' 

* All I wish is,' replied he, *that the battle of Newbury 
liad witnessed the extinction of our family as well as our 

* A peerage, and such a peerage as yours, is a fine thing,' 
said Henrietta Temple, * a very fine thing ; but I would not 
grieve, if I were you, for that. I would sooner be an 
Annine without a coronet than many a brow I wot of with.' 

*You misconceived a silly phrase,' rejoined Ferdinand. 
*I was not thinking of the loss of our coronet, though that 
is only part of the system. Our family, I am sure, are 
&ted. Birth without honour, estates without fortune, life 
without happiness, that is our lot.' 

* As for the first,' said Miss Temple, * the honourable are 
always honoured; money, in spite of what they say, I feel 
w not the greatest thing in the world ; and as for misery, 
I confess I do not very readily believe in the misery of 

*May you never prove it ! ' replied Ferdinand; *may you 
Jiever be, as I am, the victim of family profligacy and 
^^y pride ! ' So saying, he turned away, and, taking 
^P a book, for a few minutes seemed wrapped in his re- 


He suddenly resumed the conversation in a more cheerfiil 
tone. Holding a Tolume of Petrarch in his hand, he touched 
lightly, but with grace, on Italian poetry ; then diverged 
into his travels, recounted an adventure with spiighthness, 
and repKed to Miss Temple's lively remarks with gaiety and 
readiness. The morning advanced; Miss Temple closed 
her portfolio, and visited her flowers, inviting him to follow 
her. Her invitation was scarcely necessary, his movements 
were regulated by hers ; he was as faithfol to her as her 
shadow. From the conservatory they entered the garden; 
Ferdinand was as fond of gardens as Miss Temple. Slie 
praised the flower-garden of Armine. He gave her some 
account of its principal creator. The character of Glaston- 
bury highly interested Miss Temple. Love is confldential; 
it has no fear of ridicxde. Ferdinand entered with fireedom 
and yet with grace, into family details, from which, ai; 
another time and to another person, he would have been 
the first to shrink. The imagination of Miss Temple was 
greatly interested by his simple, and, to her, affecting ac- 
count of this ancient line living in their hereditary solitude, 
with all their noble pride and haughty poverty. The scene, 
the circumstances, were aU such as please a maiden's &1L07', 
and he, the natural hero of this singular history, seemed 
deficient in none of those heroic qualities whidi the wildest 
spirit of romance might require for the completion of its 
spell. Beautiful as his ancestors, and, she was sure, as 
brave, young, spirited, graceftd, and accomplished^ a gay 
and daring spirit blended with the moumfiil melody of his 
voice, and occasionally contrasted with the somewhat sub- 
dued and chastened character of his demeanour. 

* Well, do not despair,* said Henrietta Temple ; * riches 
did not make Sir Ferdinand happy. I feel confident the 
house will yet flourish.' 

* I have no confidence,' replied Ferdinand ; * I feel the 
struggle with our fate to be fruitless. Once indeed I felt 


like you ; there was a time wlieii I took even a fancied pride 
in all tlio follies of my grandfather. But that is past ; I 
have lived to execrate his memory,' 
*Hush! hush!' 

* Yes, to execrate his memory ! I repeat, to execrate his 
memory ! His follies stand between me and my happiness.* 

* Indeed, I see not that.* 

* May you never ! I cannot disguise from myself that I 
am a slave, and a wretched one, and that his career has 
entailed this curse of servitude upon me. But away with 
this ! You must think me, Miss Temple, the most ego- 
tistical of human beings ; and yet, to do myself justice, I 
never remember having spoken of myself so much before.' 

*"Will you walk with me?' said Miss Temple, after a 
moment's silence ; * you seem little inclined to avail your- 
self of my father's invitation to soHtary sport. But I 
cannot stay at home, for I have visits to pay, although I 
fear you will consider them rather dull ones.' 

•* Why so? ' 

* My visits are to cottages.' 

* I love nothing better. I used ever to be my mother's 
com.panion on such occasions.' 

So, crossing the lawn, they entered a beautiful wood of 
considerable extent, which formed the boundary of the 
grounds, and, after some time passed in agreeable conver- 
sation, emerged upon a common of no ordinary extent or 
beauty, for it was thickly studded in some parts with lofty 
timber, while in others the fdrze and fern gave richness 
and variety to the vast wilderness of verdant turf, scarcely 
marked, except by the light hoof of Miss Temple's palfrey. 

* It is not so grand as Armine Park,' said Miss Temple ; 
* but we are proud of our common.' 

The thin grey smoke that rose in different directions was 
a beacon to the charitable visits of Miss Temple. It was 
evident that she was a visitor both habitual and beloved, 

I 2 


Each cottage-door was familiar to her entrance. Th 
children smiled at her approach ; their mothers rose an< 
conrtsejed with affectionate respect. How many name 
and how many wants had she to remember ! yet nothin] 
was forgotten. Some were rewarded for industry, som 
were admonished not to be idle; but all were treate< 
with an engaging suavity more efficacious than gifts o 
punishments. The aged were solaced by her visit ; the sic! 
forgot their pains ; and, as she listened with sympathisin. 
patience to long narratives of rheumatic griefs, it seema 
her presence in each old chair, her tender enquiries an 
sanguine- hopes, brought even more comfort than her plei 
teous promises of succour from the Bower, in the shape i 
arrowroot and gruel, port wine and flannel petticoats. 

This scene of sweet simplicity brought back old days an 
old places to the memory of Ferdinand Armine. He though 
of the time when he was a happy boy at his innocent home 
his mother's boy, the child she so loved and looked after 
when a cloud upon her brow brought a tear into his eje 
and when a kiss from her lips was his most dear and desired 
reward. The last night he had passed at Armine, before 
his first departure, rose up to his recollection ; all hii 
mother's passionate fondness, all her wild fear that the da} 
might come when her chQd would not love her so dearfy u 
he did then. That time had come. But a few hours bade 
ay ! but a few hours back, and he had sighed to be alone 
in the world, and had felt those domestic ties which bac 
been the joy of his existence a burthen and a curse, i 
tear stole down his cheek ; he stepped forth from the cot 
tage to conceal his emotion. He seated himself on ib 
trunk of a tree, a few paces withdrawn ; he looked upoi 
the declining sun that gilded the distant landscape with it 
rich yet pensive light The scenes of the last five year 
flitted across his mind's eye in fleet succession; his diss! 
pttioii, his vanity, his desperate fi)lly, his hoUow woridlinea 


Why, oil ! why had he ever left liis unpolluted home ? 
Why could he not have lived and died in that sylvan para- 
dise ? Why, oh ! why was it impossible to admit his 
beautiful companion into that sweet and serene society ? 
Why should his love for her make his heart a rebel to 
his hearth ? Money ! horrible money ! It seemed to him 
that the contiguous cottage and the labour of his hands, 
with her, were preferable to palaces and crowds of retainers 
without her inspiring presence. And why not screw his 
courage to the sticking-point, and commune in confidence 
with his parents ? They loved him ; yes, they idolised 
him ! For him, for him alone, they sought the Bestoration 
of their house and fortunes. Why, Henrietta Temple was 
a treasure richer than any liis ancestors had counted. Let 
them look on her, let them listen to her, let them breathe 
as he had done in her enchantment ; and could they wonder, 
could they murmur, at his conduct ? Would they not, oh ! 
would they not, rather admire, extol it ! But, then, his 
debts, his overwhelming debts. All the rest might be faced. 
His desperate engagement might bo broken; his family 
might be reconciled to obscurity and poverty : but, ruin ! 
what was to grapple with his impending ruin ? Now his 
folly stung him ; now the scorpion entered his soul. It 
was not the profligacy of his ancestor, it was not the pride 
of his family then, that stood between him and his love ; it 
was his own culpable and heartless career ! He covered 
his face with his hands ; something touched him lightly ; 
it was the parasol of Miss Temple. 

* I am afraid,* she said, * that my visits have wearied you ; 
but you have been very kind and good.' 

He rose rapidly, with a slight blush. * Indeed,' he re- 
plied, * I have passed a most delightful morning, and I was 
only regretting that life consisted of anything else but 
cottages and yourself.' 

They were late ; they heard the first dinner-bell at Ducie 


as they re-entered the wood. * We must hurry on,* said 
Miss Temple ; ' dinner is the only subject on which papa is 
a tyrant. What a sunset ! I wonder if Lady Armine will 
return on Saturday. When she returns, I hope you will 
make her call upon us, for I want to copy the pictures in 
your gallery.' 

* If they were not heir-looms, I would give them you,* 
said Ferdinand; *but, as it is, there is only one way by 
which I can manage it.' 

* What way ? * enquired Miss Temple, very innocently. 

* I forget,' replied Ferdinand, with a peculiar smild. 
Miss Temple looked a little confused. 



In spite of his perilous situation, an indefinable sensatioxi 
of happiness pervaded the soul of Ferdinand Armine, as he 
made his hurried toilette, and hastened to the domestic 
board of Ducie, where he was now the solitary guest. His 
eye caught Miss Temple's as he entered the room. It 
seemed to beam upon him with interest and kindness. His 
courteous and agreeable host welcomed him with polished 
warmth. It seemed that a feeling of intimacy was already 
established among them, and he fancied himself already 
looked upon as an habitual member of their circle. All 
dark thoughts were driven away. He was gay and plea- 
sant, and duly maintained with Mr. Temple that conversa- 
tion in which his host excelled. Miss Temple spoke little, 
but listened with evident interest to her father and Ferdi- 
nand. She seemed to deHght in their society, and to be 
gratified by Captain Amdne's evident sense of her father's 
agreeable qualities. 


When dinner waa over they all rose together and repaired 
to the saloon. 

'I wish Mr. Glastonbury were here,' said Miss Temple, 
as Ferdinand opened the instrument. ' You must bring 
liim some day, and then our concert will be perfect.' 

Ferdinand smiled, but the name of Glastonbury made 
Ima shudder. His countenance changed at the future plans 
of Miss Temple. * Some day,' indeed, when he might also 
take the opportunity of introducing his betrothed ! But 
the voice of Henrietta Temple drove all care from his 
bosom ; he abandoned himself to the intoxicating present. 
She sang alone ; and then they sang together ; and as he 
arranged her books, or selected her theme, a thousand 
instances of the interest with which she inspired him de- 
veloped themselves. Once he touched her hand, and he 
pressed his own, unseen, to his lips. 

Though the room was lit up, the windows were open 

and admitted the moonlight. The beautifcd saloon was 

fiill of jfragrance and of melody ; the fairest of women 

dazzled Ferdinand with her presence ; his heart was full, 

his senses ravished, his hopes were high. Could there be 

BDch a demon as care in such a paradise ? Could sorrow 

fl^er enter here ? Was it possible that these bright halls 

Mid odorous bowers could be polluted by the miserable 

wnaiderations that reigned too often supreme in his un- 

^Ppy breast ? An enchanted scene had suddenly risen 

from the earth for his delight and fascination. Could 

he be imhappy ? Why, if all went darker even than 

ha sometimes feared, that man had not lived in vain 

who had beheld Henrietta Temple! All the troubles 

^ the world were folly here; this was feiry-land, 

*nd he some knight who had fallen from a gloomy 

gW)e upon some starry region flashing with perennial 


The hours flew on ; the servants brought in that light 


banquet whose entrance in the conntiy seems the only 
method of reminding onr guests that there is a morro'w. 

* *Tis the last night,' said Ferdinand, smiling, with a sigh. 
* One more song ; only one more. Mr. Temple, be indul- 
gent ; it is the last night. I feel,' he added in a lower tone 
to Henrietta, ' I feel exactly as I did when I left Arznine 
for the first time.' 

* Because you are going to return to it ? That is wilful.' 

* Wilful or not, I would that I might never see it again.* 

* For my part, Armine is to me the very land of romance.' 

* It is strange.' 

* No spot on earth ever impressed me more. It is the 
finest combination of art and nature and poetical associa- 
tions I know ; it is indeed unique.' 

* I do not like to difier with you on any subject.' 

* We should be dull companions, I fear, if we agreed lipon 

* I cannot think it.' 

*Papa,' said Miss Temple, *one little stroll upon tho 
lawn ; one little, little stroll. The moon is so bright ; and 
autumn, this year, has brought us as yet no dew.* And as 
she spoke, she took up her scarf and wound it round her 
head. * There,' she said, * I look like the portrait of the 
Turkish page in Armine Grallery.' 

There was a playful grace about Henrietta Temple, a 
wild and brilliant simplicity, which was the more charming 
because it was blended with peculiarly high breeding. No 
person in ordinary society was more calm, or enjoyed a 
more complete self-possession, yet no one in the more inti- 
mate relations of life indulged more in those little unstudied 
bursts of nature, which seemed almost to remind one of the 
playful child rather than the polished woman ; and which, 
under such circumstances, are infinitely captivating. As 
for Ferdinand Armine, he looked upon the Turkish page 
with a countenance beaming with admiration ; he wished 


it was Turkey wherein lie then beheld her, or any other 
strange land, where he conld have placed her on his 
courser, and galloped away in pursuit of a fortune wild as 
his soul. 

Though the year was in decay, summer had lent this 
night to autumn, it was so soft and sweet. The moon- 
beam fell brightly upon Ducie Bower, and the illumined 
saloon contrasted eflfectively with the natural splendour of 
the exterior scene. Mr. Temple reminded Henrietta of a 
brilliant fete which had been given at a Saxon palace, 
and which some circumstances of similarity recalled to his 
recollection. Ferdinand could not speab, but found himself 
unconsciously pressing Henrietta Temple's arm to his 
heart. The Saxon palace brought back to Miss Temple a 
wild melody which had been sung in the gardens on that 
night. She asked her father if he recollected it, and 
hummed the air as she made the enquiiy. Her gentle 
murmur soon expanded into song. It was one of those 
wild and natural lyrics that spring up in mountainous 
countries, and which seem to mimic the prolonged echoes 
that in such regions greet the ear of the pastor and the 

Oh ! why did this night ever have an end ! 



It was solitude that brought despair to Ferdinand Armine. 
The moment he was alone his real situation thrust itself 
^pon him ; the moment he had quitted the presence of 
Henrietta Temple he was as a man under the influence of 
^iifiic when the orchestra suddenly stops. The source of 
«1 his Inspiration failed him ; this last night at Ducie was 


dreadful. Sleep was out of the question ; lie did not affect 
even the mimicry of retiring, bnt paced np and down his 
room the whole night, or flung himself, when exhausted, 
upon a restless sofa. Occasionally he varied these mono- 
tonous occupations, by pressing his lips to the drawings 
which bore her name; then relapsing into a profound 
reverie, he sought some solace in recalling the scenes of 
the morning, all her movements, every word she had 
uttered, every look which had illumined his soul. In vain 
he endeavoured to find consolation in the fond belief that 
he was not altogether without interest in her eyes. Even 
the conviction that his passion was returned, in the situa- 
tion in which he was plunged, would, however flattering, 
be rather a source of fresh anxiety and perplexity. He 
took a volume from the single shelf of books that was slung 
against the wall ; it was a volume of Corinne. The fervid 
eloquence of the poetess sublimated his passion ; and with- 
out disturbing the tone of his excited mind, relieved in 
some degree its tension, by busying his imagination with 
other, though similar emotions. As he read, his mind 
became more calm and his feelings deeper, and by the time 
his lamp grew ghastly in the purple light of morning that 
now entered his chamber, his soul seemed so stilled that he 
closed the volume, and, though sleep was impossible, he 
remained nevertheless calm and absorbed. 

When the first sounds assured him that some were 
stnring in the house, he quitted his room, and after some 
difficulty found a maid-servant, by whose aid he succeeded 
in getting into the garden. He took his way to the com- 
mon where he had observed, the preceding day, a fine 
sheet of water. The sun had not risen more than an hour ; 
it was a fresh and ruddy mom. The cottagers were just 
abroad. The air of the plain invigorated him, and the 
singing of the birds, and all those rural sounds that rise 
with the husbandman, brought to his mind a wonderful 


degree of freshness and serenity. Occasionally lie heard 
the gnn of an early sportsman, to him at all times an 
animating sound ; bnt when he had plunged into the water, 
and found himself struggling with that inspiring element, 
aU sorrow seemed to leave him. His heated brow became 
cool and clear, his aching limbs vigorous and elastic, his 
jaded soul full of hope and joy. He lingered in the liquid 
and vivifying world, playing with the stream, for he was 
an expert and practised swimmer ; and often, after nights 
of Southern dissipation, had recurred to this natural bath 
for health and renovation. 

The sun had now risen far above the horizon ; the village 
clock had long struck seven; Ferdinand was three miles 
from Dude Bower. It was tune to return, yet he loitered 
on his way, the air was so sweet and fresh, the scene so 
pretly, and Ins mind, in compa^on with his rUnt feelings, 
so calm, and even happy. Just as he emerged from the 
woods, and entered the grounds of Dude, he met Miss 
Temple. She stared, and she had cause. Ferdinand 
indeed presented rather an unusual figure ; his head un- 
covered, his hair matted, and his countenance glowing 
with his exerdse, but his figure clothed with the identical 
evening dress in which he had bid her a tender good 

* Captain Armine ! ' exclaimed Miss Temple, * you are an 
early riser, I see.' 

Ferdinand looked a little confused. * The truth is,' he 
replied, ' I have not risen at all. I could not sleep ; why, 
I know not : the evening, I suppose, was too happy for so 
commonplace a termination ; so I escaped from my room as 
soon as I could do so without disturbing your household ; 
and I have been bathing, which refreshes me always more 
than slumber.' 

'Well, I could not resign my sleep, were it only for the 
sake of my dreams.' 


* Pleasant I trust they were. " Rosy dreams and slum- 
bers light " are for ladies as fair as you.' 

* I am grateful that I always fulfil the poet's wish ; and 
what is more, I wake only to gather roses : see here ! ' 

She extended to him a flower. 

* I deserve it,' said Ferdinand, * for I have not neglected 
your first gift ;' and he offered her the rose she had given 
him the first day of his visit. * 'Tis shrivelled,' he added, 
*but still very sweet, at least to me.* 

* It is mine now,' said Henrietta Temple. 

* Ah ! you will throw it away.* 

* Do you think me, then, so insensible ? ' 

* It cannot be to you what it is to me,' replied Ferdinand. 

* It is a memorial,' said Miss Temple. 

* Of what, and of whom ? ' enquired Ferdinand. 

* Of friendship and a friend.' 

* 'Tis something to be Miss Temple's friend.' 

* I am glad you think so. I believe I am very vain, but 
oertainly I like to be ■ liked.' 

* Then you can always gain your wish without an effort.' 
'Now I think we are very good friends,' said Miss 

Temple, * considering we have known each other so short a 
time. But then papa likes you so much.' 

* I am honoured as well as gratified by the kindly dispo- 
sitions of so agreeable a person as Mr. Temple. I can assnre 
his daughter that the feeling is mutual. Your father's 
opinion inflnences you ? ' 

* In everything. He has been so kind a father, that it 
would be worse than ingratitude to be less than devoted to 

* Mr. Temple is a very enviable person.' 

* But Captain Armine knows the delight of a parent who 
loves him. I love my father as you love your mother.' 

* I have, however, lived to feel that no. person's opinion 
could influence me in everything; I have lived to find 


that even filial love, and God knows mine was powerful 
enough, is, afber all, but a pallid moonlight beam, compared 

with ' 

* See ! my father kisses his hand to us from the window. 
Let us run and meet him.' 

coNi'ArNma an ominous incident. 

The last adieus are bidden : Ferdinand is on his road to 
Armine, flying from the woman whom he adores, to meet 
the woman to whom he is betrothed. He reined in his 
horse as he entered the park. As he slowly approached 
liis home, he could not avoid feeling, that after so long an 
al)sence, he had not treated Glastonbury with the kindness 
and consideration he merited. While he was torturing his 
invention for an excuse for his conduct he observed his old 
tntor in the distance ; and riding up and dismounting, he 
joined that faithful friend. Wliether it bo that love and 
fiJsehood are, under any circumstances, inseparable, Ferdi- 
nand Armine, whose frankness was proverbial, found him- 
self involved in a long and confused narrative of a visit to 
a friend, whom he had unexpectedly met, whom he had 
known abroad, and to whom he was under the greatest 
obligations. He even affected to regret this temporary 
estrangement from Armine after so long a separation, and 
to rejoice at his escape. No names were mentioned, and 
the unsuspicious Glastonbury, delighted again to be his 
companion, inconvenienced him with no cross-examination. 
But this was only the commencement of the system of 
degrading deception which awaited him. 

Willingly would Ferdinand have devoted all his time and 
feelings to his companion ; but in vain he struggled with 


the absorbing passion of bis sonl. He dwelt in silence 
npon the memory of the last three days, the most eventftd 
period of his existence. He was moody and absent, silent 
when he should have spoken, wandering when he should 
have listened, hazarding random observations instead of 
conversing, or breaking into hurried and inappropriate 
comments ; so that to any worldly critic of his conduct he 
would have appeared at the same time both dull and 
excited. At length he made a desperate effort to accom- 
pany Glastonbury to the picture gallery and listen to his 
plans. The scene indeed was not xmgratefdl to him, for it 
was associated with the existence and the conversation of 
the lady of his heart : he stood entranced before the pic- 
ture of the Turkish page, and lamented to Glastonbury 
a thousand times, that there was no portrait of Henrietta 

*I would sooner have a portrait of Henrietta Armine 
than the whole gallery together,' said Ferdinand. 

Glastonbury stared. 

* I wonder if there ever will be a portrait of Henrietta 
Armine. Come now, my dear Glastonbury,' he continued, 
with an air of remarkable excitement, ' let us have a wager 
upon it. What are the odds ? Will there ever be a por- 
trait of Henrietta Armine ? I am quite fantastic to-day. 
You are smiling at me. "Now do you know, if I had a wish 
certain to be gratified, it should be to add a portrait of 
Henrietta Armine to our gallery ? * 

* She died very young,' remarked Glastonbury. 

* But my Henrietta Armine should not die young,' said 
Ferdinand. * She should live, breathe, smile : she * 

Glastonbury looked very conftised. 

So strange is love, that this kind of veiled allusion to his 
secret passion relieved and gratified the overcharged bosom 
of Ferdinand. He pursued the subject with enjoyment. 
Anybody but Glastonbury might have thought that he had 


lost Ms senses, lie laughed so loud, and talked so fast about 
a subject whicli seemed almost nonsensical; buttbe good 
Glastonbury ascribed these ebullitions to the wanton spirit 
of youth, and smiled out of sympathy, though he knew not 
why, except that his pupil appeared happy. 

At length they quitted the gallery ; Glastonbury resumed 
his labours in the haU, where he was copying an escutcheon ; 
and after hovering a short time restlessly around his tutor, 
now escaping into the garden that he might muse over 
Henrietta Temple undisturbed, and now returning for a 
few minutes to his companion, lest the good Glastonbury 
should feel mortified by his neglect, Ferdinand broke away 
altogether and wandered far into the pleasaunce. 

He came to the green and shady spot where he had first 

beheld her. There rose the cedar spreading its dark form 

in solitary grandeur, and holding, as it were, its state 

among its subject woods. It was the same scene, almost 

the same hour : but where was she ? He waited for her 

form to rise, and yet it came not. He shouted Henrietta 

Temple, yet no fair vision blessed his expectant sight. Was 

it aU a dream ? Had he been but lying beneath these 

branches in a rapturous trance, and had he only woke to 

the shivering dulness of reality ? What evidence was there 

of the existence of such a being as Henrietta Temple ? If 

Bach a being did not exist, of what value was life ? After a 

glimpse of Paradise, could he breathe again in this tame 

and firigid world ? Where was Ducie ? Where were its 

immortal bowers, those roses of supernatural fragrance, 

and the celestial melody of its halls ? That garden, wherein 

te wandered and hung upon her accents ; that wood, 

*mong whose shadowy boughs she glided like an antelope ; 

that pensive twilight, on which he had gazed with such 

subdued emotion; that moonlight walk, when her voice 

floated, like Ariel's, in the purple sky : were these all phan- 

^ms ? Could it be that this mom, this very mom, he had 


beheld Henrietta Temple, had conversed with her alone^ 
had bidden her a soft adieu ? What, was it this day that 
she had given him this rose ? 

He threw himself npon the turf, and gazed npon the 
flower. The flower was young and beautiful as herself and 
just expanding into perfect life. To the fantastic brain of 
love there seemed a resemblance between this rose and her 
who had culled it. Its stem was tall, its countenance was 
brilliant, an aromatic essence pervaded its being. As he 
held it in his hand, a bee came hovering round its charms, 
eager to revel in its fragrant loveliness. More than once 
had Ferdinand driven the bee away, when suddenly it 
succeeded in alighting on the rose. Jealous of his rose, 
Ferdinand, in his haste, shook the flower, and the fragile 
head fell from the stem ! 

A feeling of deep melancholy came over him, with which 
he found it in vain to struggle, and which he could not 
analyse. He rose, and pressing the flower to his heart, he 
walked away and rejoined Glastonbury, whose task was 
nearly accomplished. Ferdinand seated himself upon one 
of the high cases which had been stowed away in the hall, 
folding his arms, swinging his legs, and whistling the 
German air which Miss Temple had sung the preceding 

* That is a wild and pretty air,' said Glastonbury, who 
was devoted to music. * I never heard it before. You 
travellers pick up choice things. Where did you find it ? ' 

* I am sure I cannot tell, my dear Glastonbury ; I have 
been asking myself the same question the whole morning. 
Sometimes I think I dreamt it.' 

* A few more such dreams would make you a rare com- 
poser,' said Glastonbury, smiling. 

* Ah ! my dear Glastonbury, talking of music, I know a 
musician, such a musician, a musician whom I should liko 
to introduce you to above aU persons in the world.' 


"ou always loved music, dear Ferdinand ; 'tis in tlie 
:>od. You come from a musical stock on your mother's 
io. Is Miss Grand ison musical ? ' 

* Yes, no, that is to say, I forget: some commonplace 
oomplishment in the art she has, I believe ; but I was 
>'fc thinking of that sort of thing ; I was thinking of the 
cljr 'who taught me this air.' 

* A. lady ! ' said Glastonbury. * The German ladies are 
'gHly cultivated.' 

* Yes ! the Germans, and the women especially, have a 
^xnarkably fine musical taste,* rejoined Ferdinand, recover- 
Lg troTCL his blunder. 

* I like the Germans very much,* said Glastonbury, * and 
fitdiaaire that air.' 

* O ! my dear Glastonbury, you should hear it sung by 

* Indeed ! ' said Glastonbury. 

* Yes ; if you could only hear her sing it by moonlight, I 
J'enttire to say, my dear Glastonbury, that you would 
^^oufess that all you had ever heard, or seen, or imagined, 
^^ enchanted spirits floating in the air, and filling the 
atmosphere with supernatural symphonies, was realised.' 

* Indeed ! ' said Glastonbury, * a most accomplished per- 
lonner, no doubt ! Was she professional ? * 
*Who ?' inquired Ferdinand. 
*Tour songstress.' 

* Professional! oh! ah! yes! No! she was not a pro- 
fessional singer, but she was fit to be one ; and that is an 
excellent idea, too ; for I would sooner, after all, be a pro- 
fessional singer, and live by my art, than marry against my 
iiiclination, or not marry according to it.* 

* Marry ! ' said Glastonbury, rather astonished ; * what, 
is she going to be married against her will ? Poor devoted 




' Devoted, indeed ! ' said Ferdinand ; * there is no grea 
cnrse on earth.' 

Glastonbury shook his head. 

* The affections should not be forced,' the old man adde 
' our feelings are onr own property, often our best.' 

Ferdinand fell into a fit of abstraction ; then, sudden 
turning round, he said, *Is it possible that I have bei 
away from Armine only two days ? Do you know it real 
seems to me a year ! ' 

*You are very kind to say so, my Ferdinand,' sai 




It is difficult to describe the restlessness of Ferdinat 
Ajrmine. His solitary dinner was an excuse for qtiittii 
Glastonbury : but to eat is as impossible as to sleep, for 
man who is really in love. He took a spoonful of sou 
and then jumping up from his chair, he walked up ai 
down the room, thinking of Henrietta Temple. Then t 
morrow occurred to him, and that other lady that t 
morrow was to bring. He drowned the thought in 
bumper of claret. Wine, mighty wine ! thou best ai 
surest consolation ! What care can withstand thy inspini 
influence ! from what scrape canst thou not, for the momei 
extricate the victim ! Who can deny that our spiritu 
nature in some degree depends upon our corporeal co 
dition ? A man without breakfast is not a hero ; a he 
well fed is full of audacious invention. Everything depen< 
upon the circulation. Let but the blood flow freely, ai 
a man of imagination is never without resources. A fi: 
pulse is a talisman ; a charmed life ; a balance at o 


^Jankers. It is good luck ; it is eternity ; it is wealth. 
N"othiiig can withstand ns; nothing injure us; it is in- 
exhaustible riches. So felt Ferdinand Armine, though on 
the verge of a moral precipice. To-morrow ! what of to- 
niOTTow ? Did to-morrow daunt liim ? Not a jot. He 
w-otild wrestle with to-morrow, laden as it might be with 
c^n^ses, and dash it to the earth. It should not be a day ; 
^o 'wonld blot it out of the calendar of time ; he would effect 
a moral eclipse of its influence. He loved Henrietta Temple. 
SHe should be his. Who could prevent him ? Was he 
D-o-fc an Armine ? Was he not the near descendant of that 
*^old man who passed his whole life in the voluptuous in- 
dnlgence of his unrestrained volition ! Bravo ! he willed 
^^ and it should be done. Everything yields to deter- 
^^^ination. What a fool ! what a miserable craven fool had 
^^ "been to have frightened himself with the flimsy shadows 
^^ jetty worldly cares ! He was bom to follow his own 
pX^^tire; it was supreme; it was absolute; he was a 
^*^^spot ; he set everything and everybody at defiance ; and, 
'^Uing a huge tumbler to the health of the great Sir 
I'^eTdinand, he retired, glorious as an emperor. 

On the whole, Ferdinand had not committed so great an 
^^cretion as the reader, of course shocked, might at first 
^^^^Uigine. For the first time for some days he slept, and 
*X©pt soundly. Next to wine, a renovating slumber perhaps 
P^ts us in the best humour with our destiny. Ferdinand 
^'Woke refreshed and sanguine, ftdl of inventive life, which 
*^>oii developed itself in a flow of improbable conclusions. 
^i« most rational scheme, however, appeared to consist in 
^^Uffling Henrietta Temple, and turning pirate, or engaging 
^ the service of some distant and disturbed state. Why 
Diiglit he not fi«e Greece, or revolutionise Spain, or conquer 
^ Brazils ? Others had embarked in these bold enter- 
ics ; men not more desperate tham himself, and not better 
<ltialified for the career. Young, courageous, a warrior by 

K 2 


profession, with, a name of traditionary glory throughout; 
the courts of Christendom, perhaps even remembered in 
Asia, he seemed jnst the individual to carve out a glorious 
heritage with his sword. And as for his parents, they were 
not in the vale of years ; let them dream on in easy ob- 
scurity, and maintain themselves at Armine until he returned 
to redeem bis hereditary domain. All that was requisite 
was the concurrence of his adored mistress. Perhaps, after 
all his foolish fears and all his petty anxiety, he migbt Kve 
to replace upon her brow the ancient coronet of Tewkesbury! 
Why not ? The world is strange ; nothing happens that 
we anticipate: when apparently stifled by the common- 
place, we are on the brink of stepping into the adventurous. 
If he married Miss Grandison, his career was closed: a 
most unnatural conclusion for one so young and bold. It 
was evident that he must marry Henrietta Temple : and 
then? Why then something would bappen totally un- 
expected and unforeseen. Who could doubt it ? Not he ! 

He rose, he mounted his horse, and galloped over to 
Ducie Common. Its very aspect melted his beart. He 
called at the cottages he had visited two days before. 
Without enquiring after Miss Temple, he contrived to hear 
a thousand circumstances relating to her which interested 
and charmed Lim. In the distance rose the woods of Ducie ; 
he gazed upon them as if he could never withdraw his 
sight from their deep and silent forms. Oh, that sweei^- 
bower! Why was there any other world but Ducie ? Ali- 
bis brave projects of war, and conquest, and imperiafli 
plunder, seemed dull and vain now. He sickened at th^ 
thougbt of action. He sighed to gather roses, to listen tcir 
songs sweeter than the nightingale, and wander for ever irrr 
moon-lit groves. 

He turned his horse's head : slowly and sorrowfully k^ 
directed his course to Armine. ^ Had they arrived ? Th.^ 
stem presence of reality was too much for all bis sligt*-"^ 


and glittering visions. What was he, after all? This 
future conqueror was a young officer on leave, obscure 
except in his immediate circle, with no inheritance, and 
very much in debt ; awaited with anxiety by his affectionate 
parents, and a young lady whom he was about to marry 
for her fortune ! Most impotent epilogue to a magnificent 
reverie ! 

The post arrived at Armine in the afternoon. As Fer- 
dinand, nervous as a child returning to school, tardily 
r^ained home, he recognised the approaching postman. 
Bikh ! a letter ? What was its import ? The blessing of 
delay ? or was it the herald of their instant arrival ? Pale 
and sick at heart, he tore open the hurried lines of 
Katherine. The maiden aunt had stumbled while getting 
out of a pony phaeton, and experienced a serious accident ; 
their visit to Armine was necessarfly postponed* He read 
no more. The colour returned to his cheek, reinforced by 
his heart's liveliest blood« A thousand thoughts, a thouisand 
wild hopes and wilder plans, came over him« Here was, 
at least, one interposition in his favour; others would 
occur. He felt fortunate. He mshed to the tower, to tell 
the news to Glastonbiiry. His tutor ascribed his agitation 
to the shock, and attempted to console Mul In commO' 
nicatfng the intelligence, he was obliged to finish the letter; 
it expre ssed a hope that, if their visii were postponed for 
more than a day or two, Kathenne*s dearest Ferdinand 
woaldretom to Both. 

Ferdinand wazadered forth inko ihe park to et^^ his 
freedom. A bviden had saddeufy fidkia firwa his trauae ; a 
clood tint had hxmded his risaoo laA vatiiished. T<f>d^^ 
that was so aecmsed, was to be mstsk/td taf/m fn* hi^^ ^:a!!«fi4atf' 
with red chalk. EveBi Ajsabue plLea*^ Hta ^ kai nkj Wit» 
brighter, its woodb mtore Tast aijd ^T^ei^wu T1^ %aA ititA 
arrived ; daej wooM dsc arrfvie; tf^jsson^/w^ HLoA ira^ <^«rUkCti ; 
the tioid day, too, was a. daij €)^ iKifCu Whyl tL-mt^ '^^^ 


three whole days of unexpected, unlioped-for freedom 
was eternity! What might not happen in three da 
For three days he might fairly remain in expectatioi 
fresh letters. It could not be anticipated, it was not e 
desired, that he should instantly repair to them. Co 
he would forget this curse, he would be happy. The p 
the future, should be nothing; he would revel in 
auspicious present. 

Thus communing with himself, he sauntered alo 
musing over Henrietta Temple, and building bright cas 
in the air. A man engaged with his ideas is insensible 
fatigue. Ferdinand found himself at the Park gate t 
led to .Ducie ; intending only a slight stroll, he had alrej 
rambled half way to his beloved. It was a delicious afi 
noon : the heat of the sun had long abated ; the air ^ 
sweet and just beginning to stir ; not a sound was hea 
except the last blow of the woodman's axe, or the occasio 
note of some joyous bird waking from its siesta. Ferdint 
passed the gate; he entered the winding road, the r< 
that Henrietta Temple had so admired ; a beautiful gri 
lane with banks of flowers and hedges of tall trees, 
strolled along, our happy Ferdinand, indefinite of purpc 
almost insensible whether he were advancing or retumi 
home. He plucked the wild flowers, and pressed them 
his lips, because she had admired them ; rested on a hsm 
lounged on a gate, cut a stick from the hedge, traced H< 
rietta Temple in the road, and then turned the words ii 
Henrietta Armine, and so, and so, and so, he, at leng 
stared at finding himself on Ducie Common. 

Beautiful common ! how he loved it ! How famil 
every tree and rustic roof had become to him ! Could 
ever forget the morning he had bathed in those fre 
waters ! What lake of Italy, what heroic wave of the m; 
land ocean, could rival in his imagination that simple basi 
Ho drew near to the woods of Ducie, glowing with t 


setting sun. Surely there was no twilight like the twilight 
of this land ! The woods of Ducie are entered. He recog- 
nised the path over which she had glided ; he knelt down 
and kissed that sacred earth. As he approached the plea- 
sure grounds, he turned off into a side path that he might 
not be perceived; he caught, through a vista, a distant 
glimpse of the mansion. The sight of that roof whereia he 
had been so happy ; of that roof that contained all that he 
cared for or thought of in this world, overcame him. He 
leant against a tree, and hid his face. 

The twilight died away, the stars stole forth, and Fer- 
dinand ventured in the spreading gloom of night to ap- 
proach the mansion. He threw himself upon the turf, and 
watched the chamber where she lived. The windows were 
open, there were lights within the room, but the thin 
curtains were drawn, and concealed the inmates. Happy, 
happy chamber ! All that was bright and fair and sweet 
were concentrated in those charming walls ! 

The curtain is withdrawn ; an arm, an arm which cannot 
be mistaken, pulls back the drapery. Is she coming forth ? 
N'o, she does not ; but he sees, distinctly he sees her. She 
sits in an old chair that he had often praised ; her head 
rests upon her arm, her brow seems pensive ; and in her 
other hand she holds a volume that she scarcely appears to 
read. Oh! may he gaze upon her for ever! May this 
celestial scene, this seraphic hour, never pass away. Bright 
stars ! do not fede ; thou summer wind that playest upon 
his brow, perfumed by her flowers, refresh him for ever ; 
beautiful night be for ever the canopy of a scene so sweet 
and still ; let existence glide away in gazing on yon delicate 
and tender vision ! 

Dreams of feuatastic love : the curtain closes ; a ruder 
hand than hers has shut her from his sight ! It has all 
vanished; the stars seem dim, the autumnal air in dank 
and harsh ; and where he had gazed on heaven, a bat fliti 


wild and fleet. Poor Ferdinand, unhappy Ferdinand, how 
dull and depressed our brave gallant has become ! Was it 
her father who had closed the curtain ? Could he himself, 
thought Ferdinand, have been observed ? 

Hark ! a voice softer and sweeter than the night breaks 
upon the air. It is the voice of his beloved ; and, indeed, 
with all her singular and admirable qualities, there was not 
anything more remarkable about Henrietta Temple than 
her voice. It was a rare voice ; so that in speaking, and 
in ordinary conversation, though there was no one whose 
utterance was more natural and less unstudied, it forcibly 
affected you. She could not give you a greeting, bid you 
an adieu, or make a routine remark, without impressing 
you with her power and sweetness. It sounded like a bell, 
sweet and clear and thrilling ; it was astonishing what 
influence a little word uttered by this woman, without 
thought, would have upon those she addressed. Of sucli 
fine clay is man made. 

That beautiful voice recalled to Ferdinand all his fading 
visions ; it renewed the spell which had recently enchanted 
him ; it conjured up again all those sweet spirits that had 
a moment since hovered over him with their auspicious 
pinions. He could not indeed see her ; her form was 
shrouded, but her voice reached him; a voice attuned 
to tenderness, even to love ; a voice that ravished his ear, 
melted his soul, and blended with his whole existence. His 
heart fluttered, his pulse beat high, he sprang up, he ad- 
vanced to the window ! Yes ! a few paces alone divide 
them : a single step and he will be at her side. His hand 
is outstretched to clutch the curtain, his , when sud- 
denly the music ceased. His courage vanished with its 
inspiration. For a moment he lingered, but his heart 
misgave him, and he stole back to his solitude. 

What a mystery is Love ! All the necessities and habits 
of our life sink before it. Food and sleep, that seem to 


divide our being as day ajd night divide Time, lose all 
their influence over the lover. He is a spiritualised being, 
fit only to live upon ambrosia, and slumber in an imaginary 
paradise. The cares of the world do not touch him ; its 
most stirring events are to him but the dusty incidents of 
bygone annals. All the fortune of the world without his 
mistress is misery ; and with her all its mischances a tran- 
sient dream. Revolutions, earthquakes, the change of go- 
vernments, the faU of empires, are to him but childish games, 
distaste^l to a manly spirit. Men love in the plague, and 
forget the pest, though it rages about them. They bear a 
charmed life, and think not of destruction until it touches 
tlieir idol, and then they die without a pang, like zealots 
for their persecuted creed. A man in love wanders in the 
world as a somnambulist, with eyes that seem open to those 
that watch him, yet in fact view nothing but their own 
inward fancies. 

Oh! that night at Ducie, through whose long hours 
Ferdinand Armine, in a tumult of enraptured passion, 
wandered in its lawns and groves, feeding on the image of 
its enchanting mistress, watching the solitary light in her 
cliamber that was to him as the pharos to a mariner in a 
tumnltuous voyage ! The morning, the grey cold morning, 
came at last ; he had outwatched the stars, and listened to 
tihe matins of the waking birds. It was no longer possible to 
remain in the gardens unobserved ; he regained the common. 
What should he do ? whither should he wend his course ? 
To Armine ? Oh ! not to Armine ; never could he return 
to Armine without the heart of Henrietta Temple. Yes I 
on that great venture he had now resolved ; on that mighty 
liazard all should now be staked. Reckless of consequences, 
one vast object now alone sustained him. Existence with- 
out her was impossible ! Ay ! a day, a day, a single, a 
solitary day, should not elapse without his breathing to her 
^ passion, and seeking his fate from her dark eyes. 


He strolled along to the extremity of the common. It 
was a great table land, from whose boundary yon look down 
on small rich valleys ; and into one of these, winding his 
way through fields and pastures, of which the fertile soil 
was testified by their vigorous hedgerows, he now de- 
scended. A long, low farm-house, with gable ends and 
ample porch, an antique building that in old days might 
have been some manorial residence, attracted his attention. 
Its picturesque form, its angles and twisted chimneys, its 
porch covered widi jessamine and eglantine, its verdant 
homestead, and its orchard rich with ruddy fruit, its vast 
bams and long lines of ample stacks, produced altogether 
a rural picture complete and cheerful. Near it a stream, 
which Ferdinand followed, and which, after a devious and 
rapid course, emptied itself into a deep and capacious pool, 
touched by the early sunbeam, and grateful to the swimmer's 
eye. Here Ferdinand made his natural toilet ; and after- 
wards slowly returning to the farm-house, sought an 
agreeable refuge from the sun in its fragrant porch. 

The farmer's wife, accompanied by a pretty daughter 
with downcast eyes, came forth and invited him to enter. 
While he courteously refused her offer, he sought her 
hospitality. The good wife brought a table and placed it 
in the porch, and covered it with a napkin purer than 
snow. Her viands were fresh eggs, milk warm from the 
cow, and bread she had herself baked. Even a lover might 
feed on such sweet food. This happy valley and this 
cheerful settlement wonderfully touched the fancy of Fer- 
dinand. The season was mild and sunny, the air scented 
by the flowers that rustled in the breeze, the bees soon 
came to rifle their sweetness, and flights of white and blue 
pigeons ever and anon skimmed along the sky from the 
neighbouring gables that were their dovecotes. Ferdinand 
made a salutary, if not a plenteous meal ; and when the table 
was removed, exhausted by the fatigue and exciteinent of 


four-and-twenty hours, lie stretched himself at full 
a the porch, and fell into a gentle and dreamless 

} elapsed before he awoke, vigorous indeed, and 
iillj refreshed; but the sun had already greatly 
. To his astonishment, as he moved, there fell from 
3t a beautiful nosegay. He was charmed with this 
attention from his hostess, or perhaps from her 
aughter with those downcast eyes. There seemed 
ment about the gift, and the mode of its offering, 
jarcely could be expected from these kind yet simple 

The flowers, too, were rare and choice ; geraniums 
are found only in lady's bower, a cape jessamine, 
isky carnations, and a rose that seemed the sister 
one that he had borne from Ducie. They were 
y bound together, too, by a bright blue riband, 

by a gold and turquoise pin. This was most 
; this was an adventure more suitable to a Sicilian 
han an English farm-house ; to the gardens of a 

than the clustered porch of his kind hostess, 
ud gazed at the bouquet with a glance of blended 
ty and pleasure ; then he entered the farm-house, 
le enquiries of his hostess, but they were fruitless, 
tty daughter with the downcast eyes was there too; 
very admiration of the gift, so genuine and unre- 
, proved, if testimony indeed were necessary, that 
not his unknown benefactor : admirer, he would 
id; but Ferdinand was in love, and modest. All 
ao one, to their knowledge, had been there ; and so 
nd, cherishing his beautiful gift, was fain to quit his 
mds in as much perplexity as ever. 




It was about two hours before sunset that Captain Armine 
Bummoned up courage to call at Ducie Bower. He enquired 
for Mr. Temple, and learned to his surprise that Mr. Temple 
had quitted Ducie yesterday morning for Scotland. 

* Ajid Miss Temple ? ' said Ferdinand. 

* Is at home, Sir,' repHed the servant. 

Ferdinand was ushered into the saloon. She was no'fc 
there. Our hero was very nervous ; he had been bolA 
enough in the course of his walk from the farm-house, and- 
indulged in a thousand imaginary conversations with H^ 
mistress ; but, now that he was really about to meet hei*^ 
all his fire and fancy deserted him. Everything occnrre^- 
to him inauspicious to his suit; his own situation, the shor** 
time she had known him, his uncertainty of the state of 
her afiections. How did he know she was not engaged W^ 
another ? why should she not be betrothed as well as hini-^ — 
self ? This contingency had occurred to him before, an* 
yet he had driven it jfrom his thoughts. He began to !>' 
jealous ; he began to think himself a very great fool ; 
any rate, he resolved not to expose himself any furthei 
He was clearly premature; he would call to-morrow 
next day : to speak to her now was certainly impossible. 

The door opened ; she entered, radiant as the day 
What a smile ! what dazzling teeth ! what ravisl 
dimples ! her eyes flashed like summer lightning ; she 
tended to him a hand white and soft as one of those dov^^ 
that had played about him in the morning. Surely nev^^ 
was anyone endued with such an imperial presence. S<^ 
stately, so majestic, and yet withal so simply gracious ; foJl 
of such airy artlessness, at one moment she seemed a:*^ 


empress, and then only a beantif ul child ; and the hand and 
arm that seemed fashioned to wave a sceptre, in an instant 
appeared only fit to fondle a gazelle, or plnck a flower. 

* How do you do ? ' she said ; and he really fancied she 

'was going to sing. He was not yet accustomed to that 

marvellous voice. It broke upon the silence, like a silver 

bell just touched by the summer air. * It is kind of you 

to come and see a lone maiden,' she continued ; * papa has 

deserted me, and without any preparation. I cannot endure 

to be separated from him, and this is almost the only time 

that he has refused my solicitation to accompany him. 

But he must travel far and quickly. My uncle has sent 

for him ; he is very unwell, and papa is his trustee. There 

w l>usiness ; I do not know what it is, but I dare say not 

very agreeable. By the bye, I hope Lady Armine is 

well ? * 

* My papa has deserted me,' said Ferdinand, with a smile. 
'I'liey have not yet arrived, and some days may yet elapse 
^ft)re they reach Armine.' 

* Indeed ! I hope they are well.' 

* Yes ; they are well.' 

* Did you ride here ? ' 

* You did not walk ? ' 

* I hardly know how I came ; I believe I walked. ' 

* You must be very tired ; and you are standing ! pray 
sit down ; sit in that chair ; you know that is your favourite 

And Ferdinand seated himself in the very chair in which 
he had watched her the preceding night. 
I *Tlii8 is certainly my favourite chair,' he said ; * I know 

^0 seat in the world I prefer to this.' 

* Will you take some refreshment ? I am sure you will ; 
you must be very tired. Take some hock ; papa always 
takes hock and soda water. I shall order some hock and 


soda water for you.' She rose and rang the bell in epit^G of 
his remonstrance. 

* And have yon been walking, Miss Temple ? ' enquired 

* I was thinking of strolling now,' she replied, * but I am 
glad that you have called, for I wanted an excuse to be 


An hour passed away, nor was the conversation on either 
side very brilliantly supported. Ferdinand seemed dull, 
but, indeed, was only moody, revolving in his mind many 
strange incidents and feelings, and then turning for con' 
solation in his perplexities to the enchanting vision on. 
which he still could gaze. Nor was Miss Temple either in 
her usually sparkling vein ; her liveliness seemed an effort; 
she was more constrained, she was less fluent than before. 
Ferdinand, indeed, rose more than once to depart ; yet still 
he remained. He lost his cap ; he looked for his cap ; and 
then again seated himself. Again he rose, restless and 
disquieted, wandered about the room, looked at a picture, 
plucked a flower, pulled the flower to pieces. 

* Miss Temple,' he at length observed, ' I am afraid I am 
very stupid I ' 

* Because you are silent ? ' 

' Is not that a sufficient reason ? ' • 

' Nay ! I think not ; I think I am rather fond of silent- 
people myself; I cannot bear to live with a person who-- 
feels bound to talk because he is my companion. The wholes 
day passes sometimes without papa and myself exchanging 
fifty words ; yet I am very happy ; I do not feel that we^ 
are duU : ' and Miss Temple pursued her work which sher 
had previously taken up. 

* Ah ! but I am not your papa ; when we are very inti— 
mate with people, when they interest us, we are engaged, 
with their feelings, we do not perpetually require their 
ideas. But an acquaintance, as I am, only an acquaintance. 


a miserable acquaintance, imless I speak or listen, I have 
no business to be bere ; unless I in some degree contribute 
to the amusement or the convenience of my companion, I 
degenerate into a bore.' 

* I think you are very amusing, and you may be usefiil if 
you like, very ; ' and she offered him a skein of silk, which 
she requested him to hold. 

It was a beautiful hand that was extended to him ; a 
beautifal hand is an excellent thing in woman ; it is a 
charm that never palls, and better than all, it is a means of 
fascination that never disappears. Women carry a beautiful 
hand with them to the grave, when a beautiful face has 
long ago vanished, or ceased to enchant. The expression 
of the hand, too, is inexhaustible ; and when the eyes we 
may have worshipped no longer flash or sparkle, the ring- 
lets with which we may have played are covered with a 
cap, or worse, a turban, and the symmetrical presence which 
in our sonnets has remiuded us so ofb of antelopes and 
wild gazelles, have all, all vanished; the hand, the immortal 
hand, defying alike time and care, stiU vanquishes, and 
stiU triumphs ; and small, soft, and fair, by an airy attitude, 
a gentle pressure, or a new ring, renews with untiring 
grace the spell that bound our enamoured and adonng 
youth ! 

But in the present instance there were eyes as bright as 
the hand, locks more glossy and luxuriant than Helen's of 
Troy, a cheek -gpik as a shell, and breaking into dimples 
like a May morning into sunshine, and lips from which 
stole forth a perfdme sweeter than the whole conservatory. 
Ferdinand sat down on a chair opposite Miss Temple, with 
ihe extended skein. 

' Now this is better than doing nothing ! ' she said, 
catching his eye with a glance half-kind, half-arch. 'I 
suspect. Captain Armine, that your melancholy originates 
in idleness.' 


**Ali ! if I could only be employed every day in tin' -^ 
manner ! ' ejaculated Ferdinand. 

* Nay ! not with a distaff ; but you must do sometbingr^ 
You must get into parliament.' 

* You forget that I am a Catholic,' said Ferdinand. 
!Miss Temple slightly blushed, and talked rather quickly 

about her work ; but her companion would not relinquish 
the subject. 

* I hope you are not prejudiced against my faith,' said 

'Prejudiced! Dear Captain Armine, do not make me 
repent too seriously a giddy word. I feel it is wrong that 
matters of taste should mingle with matters of belief ; but, 
to speak the truth, I am not quite sure that a Howard, or 
an Armine, who was a Protestant, like myself^ would quite - 
please my fancy so much as in their present position, which, 
if a little inconvenient, is very picturesque.' 

Ferdinand smiled. * My great grandmother was a 
Protestant,' said Ferdinand, 'Margaret Armine. Do you 
think Margaret a pretty name ? ' 

* Queen Margaret ! yes, a fine name, I think ; barring its 

*I wish my great grandmother's name had not been 
Margaret,' said Ferdinand, very seriously. 

'Now, why should that respectable dame's baptism, 
disturb your fancy ? ' enquired Miss Temple. 

* I wish her name had been Henrietta,' replied Ferdinands 
'Henrietta Armine. You know there was a Henrietti^ 
Armine once ? ' 

' Was there ? ' said Miss Temple rising. * Our skein i^ 
finished. You have been very good. I must go and se^ 
my flowers. Come.' And as she said this little word, sh0 
turned her fair and finely-finished neck, and looked over* 
her shoulder at Ferdinand with an arch expression of 
countenance peculiar to her. That winning look, indeed, 


that clear, sweet voice, and tliat quick graceful attitude, 
blended into a spell which was irresistible. His heart 
yearned for Henrietta Temple, and rose at the bidding of 
her voice. 

IVom the conservatory they stepped into the garden. It 
was a dehcious afternoon ; the sun had sunk behind the grove, 
and the air, which had been throughout the day somewhat 
oppressive, was now warm, but mild. At Ducie there was 
a fine old terrace facing the western hills, that bound the 
vaUoy in which the Bower was situate. These hills, a ridge 
of moderate elevation, but of picturesque form, parted just 
opposite the terrace, as if on purpose to admit the setting 
sun, like inferior existences that had, as it were, made way 
before the splendour of some mighty lord or conqueror. 
The lofty and sloping bank which this terrace crowned was 
covered with rare shrubs, and occasionally a group of tall 
trees sprang up among them, and broke the view with an 
interference which was far from ungraceful, while plants 
spreading foi*th from large marble vases, had extended over 
their trunks, and sometimes, in their play, had touched 
even their topmost branches. Between the teiTace and the 
distant hills extended a tract of pasture land, green and 
well-wooded by its rich hedge-rows ; not a roof was visible, 
though many farms and hamlets were at hand ; and, in the 
heart of a rich and populous land, here was a region where 
the shepherd or the herdsman was the only evidence of 
human existence. It was thither, a grateful spot at such 
an hour, that Miss Temple and her companion directed 
their steps. The last beam of the sun flashed across the 
flaming horizon as they gained the terrace ; the hills, well 
wooded, or presenting a bare and acute outline to the sky, 
rose sharply defined in form; while in another direction 
some more distant elevations were pervaded with a rich 
purple tint, touched sometimes with a rosy blaze of soft and 
flickering Hght. The whole scene, indeed, from the humble 



pasture-land that was soon to creep into darkness, to 
proud lulls whose sparkling crests were yet touched by 
living beam, was bathed with lucid beauty and luminoTi 
softness, and blended with the glowing canopy of fb* 
lustrous sky. But on the terrace, and the groves that rose 
beyond it, and the glades and vistas into which they opened^ 
fell the fall glory of the sunset. Each moment a new 
shadow, now rosy, now golden, now blending in its shiftiiig 
tints all the glory of the iris, fell over the rich pleasure- 
grounds, their groups of rare and noble trees, and their dim 
or glittering avenues. 

The .vespers of the birds were faintly dying away, the 

last low of the returning kine sounded over the lea, the 

. tinkle of the sheep-bell was heard no more, the thin white 

moon began to gleam, and Hesperus glittered in the fading 

sky. It was the twilight hour ! 

That delicious hour that softens the heart of man, what 
is its magic ? Not merely its beauty ; it is not more beau- 
tiful than the sunrise. It is its I'epose. Our tumultuous 
passions sink wiiilL the sun, there is a fine sympathy between 
us and our world, and the stillness of Nature is responded 
to by the serenity of the soul. 

At this sacred hour our hearts are pure. All worldly 
cares, all those vulgar anxieties and aspirations that at other 
seasons hover like vultures over our existence, vanish £rom 
the serene atmosphere of our susceptibility. A sense of 
beauty, a sentiment of love, pervade our being. But if at 
such a moment solitude is fall of joy, if, even when alone, 
our native sensibility sufl&ces to entrance us with a tranquil, 
yet thrilling bliss ; how doubly sweet, how multiplied must 
be our fine emotions, when the most delicate influence of 
human sympathy combines with the power and purity of 
material and moral nature, and completes the exquisite and 
enchanting spell ! 

Ferdinand Armine turned from the beautifal world around 


to gaze upon a connteiiance sweeter tlian the smnmer 
or, softer than the gleaming moon, brighter than the even- 
Qg" star. The shadowy light of pnrple eve fell npon the 
tiTL and solemn presence of Henrietta Temple. Irresistible 
amotion impelled him ; soMy he took her gentle hand, and, 
bexxding his head, he mnrmnred to her, ' Most beantrfnl, I 
love thee ! ' 

-A^ in the oppressive stillness of some tropic night, a 
angle drop is the refreshing harbinger of a shower that 
clears the heavens, so even this slight expression relieved in 
an instant the intensity of his over-bnrthened feelings, and 
warm, qnick, and gashing flowed the words that breathed 
Hb fervid adoration. ^ Yes ! ' he continued, ' in this fair 
scene, oh ! let me tnm to something fairer still. Beantifol, 
bdoved Henrietta, I can repress no longer the emotions 
^liat, since I first beheld yon, have vanquished my exist- 
ence. I love you, I adore you ; life in your socieiy is 
l^earen; without you I cannot live. Deem me, oh ! deem 
nie not too bold, sweet lady ; I am not worthy of you, yet 
let me love ! I am not worthy of you, but who can be ? 
-^ ' if I dared but venture to oflfer you my heart, if that 
Ifflniblest of all possessions might indeed be yours, if my 
•donrfaon, if my devotion, if the consecration of my life to 
yon, might in some degree compensate for its little worth, if 

I might Kve even but to hope 

*Yoa do not speak. Miss Temple, Henrietta, admirable 
Hfinri^te, have I offended you ? am I indeed the victim of 
Westoo high and fancies too supreme ? Oh ! pardon me, 
^''^ beautiful, I pray your pardon. Is it a crime to feel, 
perchance too keenly, the sense of beauty like to thine, dear 
^? Ah ! tell me I am forgiven ; tell me indeed you do 
^ liate me. I will be silent, I will never speak again. 
^^ let me walk with you. Cease not to be my companibn 
**^*^ I have been too bold. Pity me, pity me, dearest, 
<Jeaie8t Henrietta. If you but knew how I have suffered, 



if you but knew the nights that brought no sleep, t] 
of fever that have been mine since first we met, if ; 
knew how I have fed but upon one sweet idea, one 
image of absorbing life, since first I gazed on yoi 
scendent form, indeed I think that you would pity, t 
would pardon, that you might even ■ 

* Tell me, is it my fault that you are beautiful ! 
beauti^l, my wretched and exhausted soul too sure! 
Is it my fault those eyes are like the dawn, that th 
voice thrills through my fromey and but the slightei 
of that light hand falls like a spell on my entrancei 
Ah ! Henrietta, be mercifal, be kind ! ' 

He paused for a second, and yet she did not answ 
her cheek fell upon his shoulder, and the gentle pre 
her hand was more eloquent than language. Tha 
sweet signal was to him as the sunrise on the mist 
Full of hope, and joy, and confidence, he took he: 
arms, sealed her cold lips with a burning kiss, anc 
to her his eternal and almighty love ! 

He bore her to an old stone bench placed on the 
Still she was silent ; but her hand clasped his, and 1 
rested on his bosom. The gleaming moon now g 
the hills and woods were silvered by its beam, and 
meads were bathed with its clear, fair light. Not 
cloud curtained the splendour of the stars. Wha 
turous soul was Ferdinand Armine's as he sat th 
on the old bench, on Ducie Terrace, shrouding fi 
rising breeze the trembling form of Henrietta Temp] 
yet it was not cold that made her shiver. 

The clock of Ducie Church struck ten. She mcN 
ing, in a faint voice, * We must go home, my Ferdii 







The midniglit moon flung its broad beams over the glades 
and avenues of Armine, as Ferdinand, riding Miss Temple's 
horse, re-entered the park. His countenance was paler 
than the spectral light that guided him on his way. He 
looked little like a pledged and triumphant lover ; but in 
^ contracted brow and compressed lip might be read the 
determination of his soul. There was no longer a contest 
^tween poverty and pride, between the maintenance or 
destruction of his ancient house, between his old engage- 
Jttent and his present passion ; that was past. Henrietta 
Temple was the light in the Pharos, amid all his stormy 
fortones ; thither he directed all the energies of his being ; 
*^d to gain that port, or sink, was his unflinching re- 

It was deep in the night before he again beheld the 
Wers and turrets of his castle, and the ivy-covered frag- 
Jttent of the old Place seemed to sleep in peace under its 
protecting influence. A wild and beautiful event had hap- 
pened since last he quitted those ancient walls. And what 
^ouldbeits influence upon them? But it is not for the 
PWsionate lover to moralise. For him, the regrets of the 
past and the chances of the future are alike lost in the 
lavisldng and absorbing present. For, a lover that has but 


just secured the object of his long and tumultuous hopes is 
as a diver who has just plucked a jewel from the bed of 
some rare sea. Panting and wild he lies upon the beacli, 
and the gem that he clutches is the sole idea that engrosses 
his existence. 

Ferdinand is within his little chamber, that little cham- 
ber where his mother had bid him so passionate a farewell. 
Ah ! he loves another woman better than his mother now. 
Nay, even a feeling of embarrassment and pain is asso- 
ciated with the recollection of that fond and elegant being, 
that he had recognised once as the model of all feminine 
perfection, and who had been to him so gentle and so de- 
voted. He drives his mother from his thoughts. It is o^ 
another voice that he now muses ; it is the memory of^ 
another's glance that touches his eager heart. He fall^' 
into a reverie; the passionate past is acted again before 
him ; in his glittering eye and the rapid play of his feature^^ 
may be traced the tumult of his soul. A doubt crosses hi^- 
brow. Is he indeed so happy ; is it not all a dream ? H^^' 
takes from his bosom the handkerchief of Henrietta Temple ^ 
He recognises upon it her magical initials, worked in her:^ 
own fine dark hair. A smile of triumphant certainty irra — ' 
diates his countenance, as he rapidly presses the memorii 
to his lips, and imprints upon it a thousand kisses ; an 
holding this cherished testimony of his felicity to his heart- 
sleep at length descended upon the exhausted frame o 
Ferdinand Armine. 

But the night that brought dreams to Ferdinand Armine- 
brought him not visions more marvellous and magical tha: 
his waking life. He who loves, lives in an ecstatic trance 
The world that surrounds him is not the world of workiuj 
man : it is fairy land. He is not of the same order as th 
labouring myriads on which he seems to tread. The; 
are to him but a swarm of humble-minded and humble 
mannered insects. For him, the human species is repre 


sented by a single individnal, and of her lie makes an idol. 
All tliat is bright and rare is bnt invented and devised to 
adorn and please her. Flowers for her were made so sweet, 
and birds so mnsical. All nature seems to bear an intimate 
relation to the being we adore ; and as to ns life would now 
appear intolerable, a burthen of insupportable and weary- 
ing toil, without this transcendent sympathy, so we cannot 
help jGancying that were its sweet and subtle origin herself 
to quit this inspired scene, the universe itself would not be 
unconscious of its deprivation, and somewhat of the world's 
lustre might be missed even by the most callous. 

The morning burst as beautiful as such love. , A rosy 

tint suffused the soft and tremulous sky, and tinted with a 

d^cate hue the tall trees and the wide lawns, freshened 

-vnth the light and vanishing dew. The air was vocal with 

a thousand songs ; all was bright and clear, cheerful and 

golden. Ferdinand awoke from delicious dreams, and 

gazed upon the scene that responded to his own bright and 

glad emotions, and inhaled the balmy air, ethereal as his 

cwn soul. Love, that can illumine the dark hovel and the 

dismal garret, that sheds a ray of enchanting Hght over 

the close and busy city, seems to mount with a Hghter and 

more glittering pinion in an atmosphere as brilliant as its 

own plumes. Fortunate the youth, the romance of whose 

existence is placed in a scene befitting its fair and mar- 

■^llouB career; fortunate the passion that is breathed iu 

Palaces, amid the ennobling creations of surrounding art, 

and greets the object of its fond solicitude amid perfumed 

gardens, and in the shade of green and silent woods! 

^^tever may be the harsher course of his career, however 

the cold world may cast its dark shadows upon his future 

P*t^ lie may yet consider himself thrice blessed to whom 

this graceful destiny has fallen, and amid the storms and 

t^xibles of after-life may look back to these hours, fair as 

*"® dawn, beautiful as the twilight, with solace and satis- 


faction. Disappointment may wither up his energies, op- 
pression may bruise his spirit; but baulked, daunted, 
deserted, crushed, lone where once all was sympathy, gloomy 
where all was light, still he has not lived in vain. 

Business, however, rises with the sun. The morning 
brings cares, and although with rebraced energies and 
renovated strength, then is the season that we are best 
qualified to struggle with the harassing brood, still Ferdi- 
nand Armine, the involved son of a ruined race, seldom 
rose from his couch, seldom recalled consciousness after 
repose, without a pang. Nor was there indeed magic withal, 
in the sweet spell that now bound him, to preserve him 
from this black invasion. Anxiety was one of the ingre- 
dients of the charm. He might have forgotten his own 
broken fortunes, his audacious and sanguine spirit might 
have built up many a castle for the fature, as brave as that 
of Armine ; but the very inspiring recollection of Henrietta 
Temple, the very remembrance of the past and triumphant . 
eve, only the more forced upon his memory the conviction 
that he was, at this moment, engaged also to another, and 
bound to be married to two women. 

Something must be done ; Miss Grandison might arrive 
this very day. It was an improbable incident, but still it 
might occur. While he was thus musing, his servant 
brought him his letters, which had arrived the preceding 
day, letters from his mother and Katherine, his Katherine. 
They brought present relief. The invalid had not amended; 
their movements were still uncertain. E^atherine, ' his own, 
Kate,' expressed even a faint fond wish that he would 
return. His resolution was taken in an instant. He de- 
cided with the prescient promptitude of one who has his 
dearest interests at stake. He wrote to Katherine that he 
would instantly fly to her, only that he daily expected his» 
attendance would be required in town, on military business 
of urgent importance to their happiness. This might, thi^ 


nmst, necessarily delay their meeting. The moment he 
received his summons to attend the Horse Guards, he should 
hurry off. In the meantime, she was to write to him here ; 
and at all events not to quit Bath for Armine, without 
giving him a notice of several days. Having despatched 
this letter and another to his mother, Ferdinand repaired 
to the tower to communicate to Glastonbury the necessity 
of his immediate departure for London, but he also assured 
that good old man of his brief visit to that city. The pang 
of this unexpected departure was softened by the positive 
promise of returning in a very few days, and returning with 
his family. 

Having made these arrangements, Ferdinand now felt 
that, come what might, he had at least secured for himself 
a certain period of unbroken bliss. He had a faithful servant, 
an Italian, in whose discretion he had justly unlimited con- 
fidence. To him Ferdinand intrusted the duty of bringing, 
each day, his letters to his retreat, which he had fixed upon, 
should be that same picturesque farmhouse, in whose 
firiendly porch he had found the preceding day such a 
hospitable shelter, and where he had experienced that 
charming adventure which now rather delighted than 
perplexed him. 



Meanwhile the beautiful Henrietta sat in her bower, her 
music neglected, her drawing thrown aside. Even her 
birds were forgotten, and her flowers untended. A soft 
tumult filled her frame : now rapt in reverie, she leaned her 
head upon her fair hand in charmed abstraction ; now rising 
from her restless seat, she paced the chamber, and thought 
of his quick coming. What was this mighty revolution 


that a few short days, a few brief hours had occasioned r 
How mysterious, yet how irresistible, how overwheLning 
Her father was absent, that father on whose fond idea sh( 
had alone lived ; from whom the slightest separation hac 
once been pain ; and now that father clainis not even hei 
thoughts. Another, and a stranger's image, is throned in 
her soul. She who had moved in the world so variously 
who had received so much homage, and been accustomed 
from her childhood to all that is considered accomplished 
and fascinating in man, and had passed through the ordeal 
with a calm clear spirit; behold, she is no longer the 
mistress of her thoughts or feelings ; she had fallen before 
a glance, and yielded in an instant to a burning word ! 

But could she blame herself ? Did sho repent the rapid 
and ravishing past ? Did regret mingle with her wonder ? 
Was there a pang of remorse, however slight, blending its 
sharp tooth with all her bhss ? No ! Her love was perfect, 
and her joy was fail. She offered her vows to that Heaven 
that had accorded her happiness so supreme ; she felt onlj 
unworthy of a destiny so complete. She marvelled, in the 
meekness and purity of her spirit, why one so gifted had 
been reserved for her, and what he could recognise in hen 
imperfect and inferior qualities to devote to them the fond- 
ness of his rare existence. • 

Ferdinand Armine ! Did there indeed ever breathe, hac 
the wit of poet ever yet devised, a being so choice ? S* 
young, so beautiful, so lively and accomplished, so deeply 
and variously interesting! "Was that sweet voice, indeed 
only to sound in her enchanted ear, that graceful form ti 
move only for the pleasure of her watchful eye ? Tha 
quick and airy fancy but to create for her delight, and tha 
soft, gentle heart to own no solicitude but for her will aii- 
infinite gratification ? And could it be possible that bi 
loved her, that she was indeed his pledged bride, that tt: 
accents of his adoration still echoed in her ear, and his fon 


embrace still clung to her mute and trembling lips ! "Would 
he always love her ? "Would he always be so fond ? Would 
he be as faithful as he was now devoted ? Ah ! she would 
not lose him. That heart should never escape her. Her 
life should be one long vigilant device to enchain his 

"WTiat was she five days past ? Is it possible that she 
lived before she met him ? Of what did she think, what 
do ? Could there be pursuits without this companion, plans 
or feelings without this sweet friend? Life must have 
beiBn a blank, vapid and dull and weary. She could not 
recall herself before that morning ride to Armine. How 
rolled away the day ! How heavy must have been the 
hours ! All that had been uttered before she listened to 
Ferdinand seemed without point ; all that was done before 
he lingered at her side, aimless and without an object. 

O Love ! in vain they moralise ; in vain they teach us 
thou art a delusion ; in vain they dissect thine inspiring 
sentiment, and would mortify us into misery by its degrad- 
ing analysis. The sage may announce that gratified vanity 
is thine aim and end ; but the lover glances with contempt 
at his cold-blooded philosophy. Nature assures him thou 
art a beautifal and sublime emotion ; and, he answers, canst 
thou deprive the sun of its heat because its ray may be 
decomposed ; or does the diamond blaze with less splendour 
because thou canst analyse its eflftdgence ? 

A gentle rusthng sounded at the window : Henrietta 
looked up, but the sight deserted her fading vision, as 
Ferdinand seized with softness her softer hand, and pressed 
it to his Hps. 

A moment since, and she had longed for his presence as 
the infant for its mother ; a moment since, and she had 
m.urmured that so much of the mom had passed without 
his society ; a moment since, and it had seemed that no 
time could exhaust the expression of her feelings. How 


slie had sighed for his coming ! How she had hoped tlia^'C^ 
this day she might convey to him what last night she hax3 
so weakly, so imperfectly attempted ! And now she ssl^ 
trembling and silent, with downcast eyes and changiD^^ 
countenance ! 

'My Henrietta!' exclaimed Ferdinand, *my beantifiu-^ 
Henrietta, it seemed we never should meet again, and yet 
rose almost with the sun.' 

'My Ferdinand,* replied Miss Temple, scarcely darinf 
to meet his glance, ' I cannot speak ; I am so happy that 
cannot speak.' 

* Ah ! tell me, have you thought of me ? Did you observe 
I stole your handkerchief last night ? See ! here it is 
when I slept, I kissed it and wore it next mj heart.' 

' Ah ! give it me,' she faintly murmured, extending hei 
hand ; and then she added, in a firmer and livelier tone 
' and did you really wear it near your heart ! ' 

' Near thine ; for thine it is, love ! Sweet, yon look 
beautiful to-day ! It seems to me you never yet looked 
so fair. Those eyes are so brilliant, so very blue, so liV e 
the violet ! There is nothing like your eyes ! ' 

' Except your own.' 

' You have taken away your hand. Give me back ixm^J^ 
hand, my Henrietta. I will not quit it. The whole day ^t 
shall be clasped in mine. Ah ! what a hand! so soft, ^50 
very soft ! There is nothing like your hand.' 

* Yours is as soft, dear Ferdinand.' 

' O Henrietta 1 I do love you so ! I wish that I couJ^ 
tell you how I loved you! As I rode home last nigli* 
it seemed that I had not conveyed to you a tithe, nay, B 
thousandth part of what I feel.' 

' You cannot love me, Ferdinand, more than I love you.' 

' Say so again ! Tell me very often, tell me a thousand 

times, how much you love me. Unless you tell me a thousand 

times, Henrietta, I never can believe that I am so blessed.' 


They went forth into the garden. Nature, with the 
(plendid sky and the sweet breeze, seemed to smile npon 
■lieir passion. Henrietta plucked the most beautiful flowers 
Lnd placed them in his breast. 

* Do you remember the rose at Armine ? ' said Ferdinand^ 
^th a fond smile. 

* Ah! who would have believed that it would have led to 
^his ? ' said Henrietta, with downcast eyes. 

* I am not more in love now than I was then,' said Fer- 

* I dare not speak of my feelings,' said Miss Temple. * Is 
.t possible that it can be but five days back since we first 
3iet ! It seems another sBra.' 

* I have no recollection of auything that occurred before 
[ saw you beneath the cedar,' replied Ferdinand : ' that is 
the date of my existence. I saw you, and I loved. My 
love was at once complete ; I have no confidence in any 
^ther ; I have no confidence in the love that is the creature 
3f observation, aud reflection, and comparison, and calcu- 
lation. Love, in my opinion, should spring from innate 
sympathy ; it should be superior to all situations, all ties, 
mi circumstances.' 

* Such, then, we must believe is ours,' replied Henrietta, 
in a somewhat grave and musing tone : * I would willingly 
embrace your creed. I know not why I should be ashamed 
af my feelings. They are natural, and they are pure. And 
^et I tremble. But so long as you do not think lightly of 
oie, Ferdinand, for whom should I care ? ' 

* My Henrietta ! my angel ! my adored and beautiful ! I 
irorship you, I reverence you. Ah ! my Henrietta, if you 
mly knew how I dote upon you, you would not speak thus. 
}ome, let us ramble in our woods.' 

So saying, he withdrew her from the more public situa- 
ion in which they were then placed, and entered, by u 
vinding walk, those beautiful bowers that had given so fair 


and fitting a name to Ducie. Ali ! that was a ramble o£ 
rich delight, as, winding his arm round her light waist, he* 
poured into her palpitating ear all the eloquence of his 
passion. Each hour that they had known each other wa& 
analysed, and the feelings of each moment were compared. 
What sweet and thrilling confessions ! Eventually it was 
settled, to the complete satis^Eustion of both, that both had 
fallen in love at the same time, and that they had been 
mutually and unceasingly thinking of each other from, the 
first instant of their meeting. 

The conversation of lovers is inexhaustible. Hour glided 
away after hour, as Ferdinand alternately expressed his 
passion and detailed the history of his past life. For* the 
curiosity of woman, lively at all times, is never so keen, sc 
exacting, and so interested, as in her anxiety to become 
acquainted with the previous career of her lover. She h 
jealous of all that he has done before she knew hiTn ; oj 
every person to whom he has spoken. She will be assured 
It thousand times that he never loved before, yet she 
credits the first affirmation. She envies the mother who 
knew him as a child, even the nurse who may have rocked 
his cradle. She insists upon a minute and finished por- 
traiture of his character and life. 

Why did he not give it ? More than once it was upon 
his lips to reveal all ; more than once he was about to pour 
forth all his sorrows, all the entanglements of his painfnl 
situation ; more than once he was about to make the full 
and mortifying confession, that, though his heart was hers, 
there existed another, who even at that moment might 
claim the hand that Henrietta clasped with so much tender- 
ness. But he checked himself. He would not break the 
charm that surrounded him ; he would not disturb the 
clear and brilliant stream in which his life was at this 
moment flowing ; he had not courage to change by a 
worldly word the scene of celestial enchantment in which 


he now moved and breathed. Let'ns add, in some degree 

for Ills justification, that he was not altogether unmindf al 

of -fclie feelings of Miss Grandison. Sufficient misery re- 

ncLaixied, at all events, for her, without adding the misery 

o£ making her rival a confidant in her mortification. The 

cLeed. must be done, and done promptly ; but, at least, 

tliere should be no uimecessary witnesses to its harrowing 


So he looked upon the radiant brow of his Henrietta, 
"wreathed with smiles of innocent triumph, sparkling with 
^inalloyed felicity, and beaming with unbroken devotion. 
Shotdd the shade of a dark passion for a moment cloud that 
heaven, so bright and so serene ? Should even a mo- 
mentary pang of jealousy or distrust pain that pure and 
^^^^suHied breast ? In the midst of contending emotions, he 
pressed her to his heart with renewed energy, and, bending 
aown his head, imprinted an embrace upon her blushing 

Tliey seated themselves on a bank, which, it would seem, 

^at;tire had created for the convenience of lovers. The 

^ftest moss and the brightest flowers decked its elastic and 

^^g^rant side. A spreading beech tree shaded their heads 

fr^Hx the sun, which now was on the decline ; and occa- 

^o^vally its wide branches rustled with the soffc breeze that 

passed over them in renovating and gentle gusts. The 

^^Hifis widened before them, and at the termination of a 

^®lI-contrived avenue, they caught the roofs of the village 

^'^^ the tall grey tower of Ducie Church. They had wan- 

^^^od for hours without weariness, yet the repose was 

S'^^tiefdl, while they listened to the birds, and plucked 


* -Ah ! I remember,' said Ferdinand, * that it was not far 

^^^^■Oi here, while slumbering indeed in the porch of my 

P^^trfy jGEumhouse, that the fairy of the spot dropped on my 

"^^^ast these beautiful flowers that I now wear. Did you 


not observe them, my sweet Henrietta ? Do you know that 

I am rather mortified, that they have not made you at least 

a little jealous ? ' 

' I am not jealous of fairies, dear Ferdinand.* 

*And yet I half believe that you are a feiry, my Hen- 


* A very substantial one, I fear, my Ferdinand. Is tMs a 
compliment to my form ? ' 

* Well, then, a sylvan nymph, much more, I assure you, 
to my fency; perhaps the rosy Dryad of this feir ttee; 
rambling in woods, and bounding over commons, scattering 
beautiftil flowers, and dreams as bright.' 

* And were your dreams bright yesterday morning r ' 
' I dreamt of you.' 

* And when you awoke ? ' 

* I hastened to the source of my inspiration.* 

* And if you had not dreamt of me ? * 

* I should have come to have enquired the reason why.' 
Miss Temple looked upon the ground ; a blended ex- 
pression of mirth and sentiment played over her features, 
and then looking up with a smile contending with her 
tearful eye, she hid her face in his breast and murmured, 
' I watched him sleeping. Did he indeed dream of me ?' 

* Darling of my existence ! ' exclaimed the enraptured 
Ferdinand, ' exquisite, enchanting being ! Why am I bo 
happy ? What have I done to deserve bliss so ineffable ? 
But tell me, beauty, tell me how you contrived to appear 
and vanish without witnesses. For my enquiries were 
severe, and these good people must have been less artless 
than I imagined to have withstood them successfully.' 

* I came,' said Miss Temple, * to pay them a visit, with 
me not uncommon. When I entered the porch I beheld 
my Ferdinand asleep. I looked upon him for a moment, 
but I was frightened and stole away unperceived. But I 
left the flowers, more fortunate than your Henrietta.' 


^ Sweet love ! ' 

* Never did I return home,* continued Miss Temple, 
.ore sad and more dispirited. A thousand times I 
shed tliat I was a flower, that I might be gathered 
axi.<i worn upon your heart. You smile, my Ferdinand. 
Iixdeed I feel I am very foolish, yet I know not why, I am 
ao^w neither ashamed nor a&aid to tell you anything. I 
w^SLS so miserable when I arrived home, my Ferdinand, that 
I iwent to my room and wept. And he then came ! Oh ! 
wliat heaven was mine ! I wiped the tears from my face 
and came down to see him. He looked so beautiful and 
happy ! ' 

' And you, sweet child, oh ! who could have believed, at 
tliat moment, that a tear had escaped from those bright 
eyes ! ' 

* Love makes us hypocrites, I fear, my Ferdinand ; for, a 
i^oment before, I was so wearied that I was lying on my 
^fa quite wretched. And then, when I saw him, I pre- 
tended that I had not been out, and was just thinking of a 
®^U. Oh, my Ferdinand ! will you pardon me ? ' 

* It seems to me that I never loved you until this moment. 
*^ it possible that human beings ever loved each other as 
We do?' 

I^ow came the hour of twilight. While in this fond 
^**aiii the lovers interchanged their hearts, the sun had 
®^*^ the birds grown silent, and the star of evening 
Wiikled over the tower of Ducie. The bat and the beetle 
Warned them to return. They rose reluctantly and re- 
^'^ced their steps to Ducie, with hearts softer even than 
^e melting hour. 

* Must we then part ? ' exclaimed Ferdinand. * Oh ! must 
^e part f How can I exist even an- instant without your 
P^^sence, without at least the consciousness of existing 
'^der the same roof ? Oh ! would I were one of your 
Bervrng-men, to listen to your footstep, to obey your bell, 



and ever and anon to catcli yonr voice ! Oh ! now I wish 
indeed Mr. Temple were here, and then I might be your 

' My father ! ' exclaimed Miss Temple, in a somewliat 
serious tone. *I ought to have written to him to-day! 
Oh ! talk not of my father, speak only of yourself.' 

They stood in silence as they were about to emerge upon 
the lawn, and then Miss Temple said, ' Dear Ferdinand, you 
must go ; indeed you must. Press me not to enter. If you 
love me, now let us part. I shall retire immediately, that 
the morning may sooner come. God bless you, my Ferdi- 
nand. May He guard over you, and keep you for ever and 
ever. You weep ! Indeed you must not ; you so distress 
me. Ferdinand, be good, be kind; for my sake do not 
this. I love you ; what can I do more ? The time will 
come we will not part, but now we must. Good night, my 
Ferdinand. Nay, if you will, these lips indeed are yours. 
Promise me you will not remain here. Well then, when 
the light is out in my chamber, leave Ducie. Promise me 
fchis, and early to-morrow, earlier than you think, I will pay 
a visit to your cottage. Now be good, and to-morrow we 
will breakfast together. There now ! ' she lEidded in a gay 
tone, ' you see woman's wit has the advantage.' And so 
without another word she ran away. 



The separation of lovers, even with an immediate prospect 
of union, involves a sentiment of deep melancholy. The 
reaction of our solitary emotions, after a social impnlse of 
such peculiar excitement, very much disheartens and de- 
presses us. Mutual passion is complete sympathy. Under 


such an influence there is no feeling so strong, no fancy so 
delicate, that it is not instantly responded to. Our heart 
has no secrets, though our life may. Under such an in- 
fluence, each unconsciously labours to enchant the other ; 
each struggles to maintain the reality of that ideal which 
has been reached in a moment of happy inspiration. Then 
is the season when the voice is ever soft, the eye ever 
bright, and every movement of the &ame airy and pictu- 
resque ; each accent is full of tenderness ; each glance, of 
a£fection ; each gesture, of grace. "We live in a heaven of 
our own creation. All happens that can contribute to our 
perfect satisfaction, and can ensure our complete self- 
complacency. We give and we receive feliciiy. We adore 
and we are adored. Love is the May-day of the heart. 

But a cloud nevertheless will dim the genial lustre of 

that soft and brilliant sky when we are alone ; when the 

soft voice no longer sighs, and the bright eye no longer 

beams, and the form we worship no longer moves before 

our enraptured vision. Our happiness becomes too much 

the result of reflection. Our faith is not less devout, but it 

is not so fervent. We beHeve in the miracle, but we no 

longer witness it. 

And as the light was extinguished in the chamber of 
Henrietta Temple, Ferdinand Armine felt for a moment as 
if his sun had set for ever. There seemed to be now no 
evidence of her existence. Would to-morrow ever come ? 
And if it came, would the rosy hours indeed bring her in 
their radiant car ? What if this night she died ? He 
shuddered at this wild imagination. Yet it might be ; such 
^h^ calamities had been. And now he felt his life was 
involved in hers, and that under such circumstances his 
instant death must complete the catastrophe. There was 
then much at*stake. Had it been yet his glorious privi- 
lege that her fair cheek should have found a pillow on his 
heart ; could he have been permitted to have rested with- 

M 2 


out her door but as her guard ; even if the same roof at any ^ 
distance had screened both their heads ; such dark concep- — 
tions would not perhaps have risen up to torture him ; butcft^ 
as it was, they haunted him like evil spirits as he took hiif=^ . 
lonely way over the common to gain his new abode. 

Ah ! the morning came, and such a mom ! Bright as hii^^ 
love ! Ferdinand had passed a dreamy night, and when h^ . 
woke he could not at first recognise the locality. It wa-^.^ 
not Armine. Could it be Ducie ? As he stretched hi-JT . 
limbs and rubbed his eyes, he might be excused for a m(^^ ^ 
ment fancying that all the happiness of yesterday was ins.* 
deed a vision. He was, in truth, sorely perplexed as h-e 
looked around the neat but humble chamber, and caugls^ 
the first beam of the sun struggling through a casement 
shadowed by the jessamine. But on his heart there rested 
a curl of dark and flowing hair, and held together by that 
very turquoise of which he fancied he had been dreaming. 
Happy, happy Ferdinand ! Why shouldst thou have cares? 
And may not the course even of thy true love run smooth? 

He reeks not of the future. Wliat is the future to one 
so blessed ? The sun is up, the lark is singing, the sky is 
bluer than the love-jewel at his heart. She will be here 
soon. No gloomy images disturb him now. Cheerfulness 
is the dowry of the dawn. 

Will she indeed be here ? Will Henrietta Temple indeed 
come to visit him? Will that consummate being before 
whom, but a few days back, he stood entranced ; to whose 
mind the very idea of his existence had not then even 
occurred ; will she be here anon to visit him? to visit her 
beloved ! What has he done to be so happy ? What fairy 
has touched him and his dark fortunes with her wand? 
What talisman does he grasp to call up such bright adven- 
tures of existence ? He does not en». He is an enchanted 
being ; a spell indeed pervades his frame ; he moves in trath 
in a world of marvels and miracles. For what fairy has a 


-wand like love, what talisman can achieve tlie deeds of 

He quitted tlie rustic porch, and strolled up the lane that 
led to Ducie. He started at a sound : it was but the spring 
of a wandering bird. Then the murmur of a distant wheel 
turned him pale ; and he stopped and leant on a neighbour- 
ing gate with a panting heart. Was she at hand ? There 
is not a moment when the heart palpitates with such deli- 
cate suspense as when a lover awaits his mistress in the 
spring days of his passion. Man watching the sun rise 
from a mountain, awaits not an incident to him more beau- 
tiful, more genial, and more impressive. With her presence 
it would seem that both light and heat fall at the same 
time upon his heart : his emotions are warm and sunny, 
that a moment ago seemed dim and frigid ; a thrilling sense 
of joy pervades his frame ; the air is sweeter, and his ears 
seem to echo with the music of a thousand birds. 

The sound of the approaching wheel became more 
audible ; it drew near, nearer ; but lost the delicacy that dis- 
tance lent it. Alas ! it did not propel the car of a fairy, or the 
chariot of a heroine, but a cart, whose taxed springs bowed 
beneath the portly form of an honest yeoman who gave 
Captain Armine a cheerful good-mon'ow as he jogged by, 
and flanked his jolly whip with unmerciful dexterity. The 
loudness of the unexpected salute, the crack of the echoing 
thong, shook the fine nerves of a fanciful lover, and Ferdi- 
nand looked so confused, that if the honest yeoman had 
onlj stopped to observe him, the passenger might have 
leaU J been excused for mistaking him for a poacher, at the 
least, by his guilty countenance. 

This little worldly interruption broke the wings of Fer- 
dinand's soaring fancy. He fell to earth. Doubt came 
over him whether Henrietta would indeed come. He was 
disappointed, and so he became distrustful. He strolled on, 
however, in the direction of Ducie, yet slowly, as there was 


more tlian one road, and to miss each otlier would have 
been mortifying. His quick eye was in every quarter ; his 
watchful ear listened in every direction : still she was not 
seen, and not a sound was heard except the humi of day. 
He became nervous, agitated, and began to conjure up a 
crowd of unfortunate incidents. Perhaps she was ill ; that 
was very bad. Perhaps her father had suddenly returned. 
Was that worse? Perhaps something strange had hap- 
pened. Perhaps 

Why ! why does his face turn so pale, and why is his 
step so suddenly arrested ? Ah ! Ferdinand Armine, is not 
thy conscience clear ? That pang was sharp. No, no, it 
is impossible ; clearly, absolutely impossible ; this is weak 
indeed. See ! he smiles ! He smiles at his weakness. 
He waves his arm as if in contempt. He casts away, with 
defiance, his idle apprehensions. His step is more assured, 
and the colour returns to his cheek. And yet her father 
must return. Was he prepared for that occurrence ? This 
was a searching question. It induced a long, dark train of 
harassing recollections. He stopped to ponder. In what 
a web of circumstances was he now involved ! Howsoever 
he might act, self-extrication appeared impossible. Perfect 
candour to Miss Temple might be the destruction of her 
love ; even modified to her father, would certainly produce 
his banishment from Ducie. As the betrothed of Miss 
Grandison, Miss Temple would abjure him ; as the lover of 
Miss Temple, under any circumstances, Mr. Temple would 
reject him. In what light would he appear to Henrietta 
were he to dare to reveal the truth ? Would she not look 
upon him as the unresisting libertine of the hour, engaging 
in levity her heart as he had already trified with another's ? 
For that absorbing and overwhelming passion, pure, primi- 
tive, and profound, to which she now responded with an 
enthusiasm as fresh, as ardent, and as immaculate, she 
would only recognise the fleeting fancy of a vain and 


worldly spirit, eager to add another triumpli to a long list 
of conquests, and proud of another evidence of his irresist- 
ible influence. What security was there for her that she too 
should not in turn be forgotten for another P that another 
eye should not shine brighter than hers, and another 
voice sound to his ear with a sweeter tone ? Oh, no ! he 
dared not disturb and sully the bright flow of his present 
existence ; he shrank from the fatal word that would dis- 
solve the speU that enchanted them, and introduce all the 
calculating cares of a harsh world into the thoughtless Eden 
in which they now wandered. And, for her father, even 
if the sad engagement with Miss Ghrandison did not exist, 
ynih. what front could Ferdinand solicit the hand of his 
daughter ? What prospect could he hold out of worldly 
prosperity to the anxious consideration of a parent ? Was 
he himself independent ? Was he not worse than a beggar ? 
Could he refer Mr. Temple to Sir Ratcliffe ? Alas ! it would 
be an insult to both! In the meantime, every hour Mr. 
Temple might return, or something reach the ear of Hen- 
rietta £a.tal to all his aspirations. Armine with all its cares, 
Bath with all its hopes ; his melancholy father, his fond 
and sanguine mother, the tender-hearted Elatherine, the de- 
voted Glastonbury, all rose up before him, and crowded on 
bis tortured imagination. In the agony of his mind he 
wished himself alone in the world : he sighed for some 
eaorthquake to swallow up Armine and all its fatal fortunes ; 
and as for those parents, so aflectionate and virtuous, and 
tq whom he had hitherto been so dutifiil and devoted, he 
tnmed fix>m their idea with a sensation of weariness, almost 
of dislike. 

He sat down on the trunk of a tree and buried his &ce 
in his hands. His reverie had lasted some time, when a 
gentle sound disturbed him. He looked up ; it was Hen- 
rietta. She had driven over the common in her pony- 
chair, and unattended. She was but a few steps from him ; 


and as he looked np, he caught her fond smile. He sprang _ 
from his seat ; he was at her side in an instant ; his he ai - ua 
beat so tumnltnouslj that he could not speaJk; all darE'— 
thoughts were forgotten ; he seized with a trembling toucll ^ 
her extended hand, and gazed upon her with a glance 
ecstasy. For, indeed, she looked so beautiful that 
seemed to him he had never before done justice to. her 
passing loveliness. There was a bloom upon her cheek, 

upon some choice and delicate fruit; her violet ej^^s 
sparkled like gems ; while the dimples played and quiver^ci 
on her cheeks, as you may sometimes watch the sunbea:Kzi 
on the pure surface of fair water. Her countenance, in- 
deed, was wreathed with smiles. She seemed the happiest 
thing on earth ; the very personification of a poetic spring; 
lively, and fresh, and innocent ; sparkling, and sweet, and 
soft. When he beheld her, Ferdinand was reminded of 
some gay bird, or airy antelope ; she looked so bright and 
joyous ! 

' He is to get in,* said Henrietta, with a smile, ' and driye 
her to their cottage. Have I not managed well to come 
alone ? We shall have such a charming drive to-day.' 

* You are so beautiful ! * murmured Ferdinand. 

* I am content if you but think so. You did not hear me 
approach ? What were you doing ? Plunged in medita- 
tion ? Now tell me truly, were you thinking of her ? ' 

* Indeed, I have no other thought. Oh, my Henrietta 1 
you are so beautiful to-day. I cannot talk of anything but 
your beauty.* 

* And how did you sleep ? Are you comfortable ? I 
have brought you some flowers to make your room look 

They soon reached the farm-house. The good-wife 
seemed a little surprised when she observed her guest 
driving Miss Temple, but far more pleased. Henrietta ran 
into the house to see the children, spoke some kind words 


;o tlie little maiden, and asked if their guest had break- 
lasted. Then, turning to Ferdinand, she said, *'Have yom 
iorgotten that you are to give me a breakfast ? It shall be 
ai the porch. Is it not sweet and pretty ? See, here are 
^our flowers, and I have brought you some fruit.* 

The breakfast was arranged. * But you do not play your 
part, sweet Henrietta,* he said ; * I cannot breakfast alone.* 

She affected to share his repast, that he might partake 
of it ; but, in truth, she only busied herself in arranging 
the flowers. Yet she conducted herself with so much 
dexterity, that Ferdinand had an opportunity of gratifying 
his appetite, without being placed in a position, awkward 
at all times, insufferable for a lover, that of eating in the 
presence of others who do not join you in the occupation. 

* ITow,' she suddenly said, sitting by his side, and placing 
a rose in his dress, * I have a little plan to-day, which I 
think will be quite delightful. You shall drive me to 

Ferdinand started. He thought of Glastonbury. His 
miserable situation recurred to him. This was the bitter 
drop in the cup ; yes ! in the very plenitude of his rare 
felicity he experienced a pang. His confusion was not 
unobserved by Miss Temple ; for she was very quick in her 
perception ; but she could not comprehend it. It did not 
rest on her mind, particularly when Ferdinand assented to 
her proposition, but added, * I forgot that Armine is more 
interesting to you than to me. All my associations with 
Armine are painful. Ducie is my dehght.* 

* Ah ! my romance is at Armine ; yours at Ducie. What 
we live among, we do not always value. And yet I love 
my home,* she added, in a somewhat subdued, even serious 
tone ; * all my associations with Ducie are sweet and plea- 
sant. Will they always be so ? * 

She hit upon a key to which the passing thoughts of 
Ferdinand too completely responded ; but he restrained the 


mood of his mind. As she grew graye, he affected cheer- 
fulness. ' Mj Henrietta m.ast always be happy/ he said, 

* at least, if her Ferdinand's love can make her so.' 

She did not reply, but she pressed his hand. Then, after 
a moment's silence, she said, ' My Ferdinand must not be 
low-spirited about dear Armine. I haye confidence in our 
destiny ; I see a happy, a very happy future.' 

Who could resist so fair a prophet ? Not the sanguine 
mind of the enamoured Ferdinand Armine. He drank 
inspiration fix)m her smiles, and dwelt with delight on 
the tender accents of her animating sympathy. ' I never 
shall be low-spirited with you,' he replied ; * you are my 
good genius. O Henrietta! what heaven it is to be to- 
gether ! ' 

* I bless you for these words. We will not go to Armine 
to-day. Let us walk. And to speak the truth, for I am 
not ashamed of saying anything to you, it would be hardly 
discreet, perhaps, to be driving about the country in this 
guise. And yet,' she added, after a moment's hesitation, 

* what care I for what people say ? O Ferdinand! I think 
only of you 1 ' 

That was a delicious ramble which these young and 
enamoured creatures took that sunny mom ! The air was 
sweet, the earth was beautiful, and yet they were insensible 
to everything but their mutual love. Inexhaustible is the 
converse of fond hearts ! A simple story, too, and yet there 
are so many ways of telling it ! 

* How strange that we should have ever met ! ' said 
Henrietta Temple. 

* Indeed, I think it most natural,' said Ferdinand; 'I 
will believe it the fulfilment of a happy destiny. For all 
that I have sighed for now I meet, and more, much more 
than my imagination could ever hope for.' 

* Only think of that morning drive,' resumed Henrietta, 

* such a little time ago, and yet it seems an age ! Let us 


76 in destiny, dear Ferdinand, or you must think of 
[ fear, that which I would not wish.' 
ly own Henrietta, I can think of you only as the 
3st and the sweetest of beings. My love is ever equalled 
ly gratitude ! ' 

kfy Ferdinand, I had read of such feelings, but did not 
ve in them. I did not believe, at least, that they were 
•ved for me. And yet I have met many persons, and 
something more, much more than falls to the lot of 
len of my age. Believe me, indeed, my eye has hitherto 
L undazzled, and my heart untouched.' 
e pressed her hand. 

ksd then,' she resumed, ' in a moment ; but it seemed 
like common life. That beautiful wilderness, that 
ons castle ! As I gazed around, I felt not as is my 
om. I felt as if some fate were impending, as if my 
and lot were bound up, as it were, with that strange 
silent scene. And then he came forward, and I beheld 
, 80 unlike all other men, so beautiftil, so pensive ! O 
dinand ! pardon me for loving you ! ' and she gently 
led her head, and hid her face on his breast. 
Darling Henrietta,' lowly breathed the enraptured 
a*, *best, and sweetest, and loveliest of women, your 
dinand, at that moment, was not less moved than you 
"e. Speechless and pale I had watched my Henrietta, 
1 felt that I beheld the being to whom I must dedicate 

I shall never forget the moment when I stood before 
portrait of Sir Ferdinand. Do you know my heart was 
phetic ; I wanted not that confirmation of a strange con- 
tw©. I felt that you must be an Armine. I had heard 
much of your grandfather, so much of your fiimily. I 
ed them for their glory, and for their lordly sorrows.' 
'Ah 1 my Henrietta, 'tis that alone that galls me. It is 
iter to introduce my bride to our house of cares.' 


* You shall never think it so,' she replied with animatio 
* I will prove a true Armine. Happier in the honour 
that name, tlian in the most rich possessions ! You do m 
know me yet. Your wife shall not disgrace you or yoi 
lineage. I have a spirit worthy of you, Ferdinand; i 
least, I dare to hope so. I can break, but I will not beiw 
We will wrestle together with all our cares ; and my Fei 
dinand, animated by his Henrietta, shall restore the house 

* Alas ! my noble-minded girl, I fear a severe trial awaii 
us. I can offer you only love.* 

* Is there anything else in this world ? ' 

* But, to bear you from a roof of luxury, where you hav 
been cherished from your cradle, with all that mioisters t 
the delicate delights of woman, to — oh ! my Henrietta, yo 
know not the disheartening and depressing burthen ( 
domestic cares.' His voice faltered as he recalled h 
melancholy father ; and the disappointment, perhaps tl 
destruction, that his passion was preparing for his roof. 

* There shall be no cares ; I will endure everything ; 
will animate all. I have energy; indeed I have, my Ferd 
nand. I have, young as I may be, I have often inspirit© 
often urged on my father. Sometimes, he says, that had 
not been for me, he would not have been what he is. E 
is my father, the best and kindest parent that ever love 
his child ; yet, what are fathers to you, my Ferdinand 
and, if I could assist him, what may I not do for ' 

* Alas ! my Henrietta, we have no theatre for actio: 
You forget our creed.' 

* It was the great Sir Ferdinand's. He nmde a theatre 

* My Henrietta is ambitious,' said Ferdinand, smiling. 

* Dearest, I would be content, nay ! that is a weak phrae 
I would, if the choice were in my power now to select 
life most gratefdl to my views and feelings, choose soE 
delightfal solitude, even as Armine, and pass existen. 
with no other aim but to delight you. But we were spea- 


ing of other circumstances. Sncli happiness, it is said, is 
not for lis. And I wished to show yon that I have a spirit 
that can straggle with adversity, and a soul prescient of 
overwhelming it.' 

* You have a spirit I reverence, and a soul I worship, 
nor is there a happier being in the world this moment than 
Ferdinand Armine. With such a woman as you every fate 
must be a triumph. You have touched upon a chord of my 
heart that has sounded before, though in solitude. It was 
but the wind that played on it before ; but now that tone 
rings with a purpose. This is glorious sympathy. Let us 
leave Armine to its fate. I have a sword, and it shall go 
hard if I do not carve out a destiny worthy even of Hen- 
rietta Temple.' 




The communion of this day, of the spirit of which the con- 
versation just noticed may convey an intimation, produced 
an inspiriting effect on the mind of Ferdinand. Love is 
inspiration; it encourages to great deeds, and develops the 
creative faculty of our nature. Few great men have 
flourished, who, were they candid, would not acknowledge 
the vast advantages they have experienced in the earlier 
years of their career from the spirit and sympathy of 
woman. It is woman whose prescient admiration strings 
the lyre of the desponding poet, whose genius is afterwards 
to be recognised by his race, and which often embalms the 
memory of the gentle mistress whose kindness solaced him 
in less glorious hours. How many an ofl&cial portfolio 
would never have been carried, had it not been for her 
sanguine spirit and assiduous love! How many a de- 


pressed and despairing advocate has clntclied the Great 
Seal, and taken his precedence before princes, borne onward 
by the breeze of her inspiring hope, and illnmined by the 
snnshine of her prophetic smile ! A female Mend, amiable, 
clever, and devoted, is a possession more valuable than 
parks and palaces ; and, without such a muse, few men can 
Bucceed in Hfe, none be content. 

The plans and aspirations of Henrietta had relieved 
Ferdinand from a depressing burthen. Inspired by her 
creative sympathy, a new scene opened to him, adorned 
by a magnificent perspective. His sanguine imagination 
sought refage in a triumphaat future. That love, for wHch 
he had hitherto schooled his mind to sacrifice every worldly 
advantage, appeared suddenly to be transformed into the 
very source of earthly success. Henrietta Temple was to be 
the fountain, not only of his bliss, but of his prosperity. In 
the revel of his audacious fancy he seemed, as it were, by a 
beautiful retribution, to be already rewarded for having 
devoted, with such unhesitating readiness, his heart upon 
the altar of disinterested affection. Lying on his cotfcage- 
couch, he indulged in dazzling visions ; he wandered in 
strange lands with his beautifal companion, and offered at 
her feet the quick rewards of his unparalleled achievements. 

Recurring to his immediate situation, he resolved to lose 
no time in bringing his affairs to a crisis. He was enen 
working himself up to his instant departure, solaced by the 
certainty of his immediate return, when the arrival of his 
servant announced to him that Glastonbury had quitted 
Armine on one of those antiquarian rambles to which he 
was accustomed. Gratified that it was now in his power 
to comply with the wish of Henrietta to visit his home, and 
perhaps, in truth, not very much mortified that so reason- 
able an excuse had arisen for the postponement of Bis 
intended departure, Ferdinand instantly rose, and as 
speedily as possible took his way to Ducie. 


He found Henrietta in the garden. He had arrived, 
perhaps, earlier than he was expected ; yet what joy to see 
him! And when he himself proposed an excursion to 
Armine, her gratefid smile melted his very heart. Indeed, 
Ferdinand this morning was so gay and light-hearted, that 
his excessive merriment might almost have been as sus- 
picions as his passing gloom the previous day. Not less 
tender and fond than before, his sportive fancy indulged in 
infinite expressions of playful humour and dehcate pranks 
of love. When he first recognised her, gathering a nosegay 
too for him, himself unobserved, he stole behind her on tip- 
toe, and suddenly clasping her delicate waist, and raising 
her gently in the air, * Well, lady-bird,* he exclaimed, * I 
too will pluck a flower ! ' 

Ah ! when she turned round her beautiful face, full of 
charming confusion, and uttered a faint cry of fond aston- 
ishment, as she caught his bright glance, what happiness 
was Ferdinand Armine's, as he felt this enchaiating creature 
was his, and pressed to his bosom her noble and throbbing 

* Perhaps, this time next year, we may be travelling on 
nmles,' said Ferdinand, as he flourished his whip, and the 
little pony trotted along. Henrietta smiled. * And then,' 
continued he, * we shall remember our pony-chair that we 
tnm up our noses at now. Donna Henrietta, jogged to 
death over dull vegas, and picking her way across rocky 
sierras, will be a very different person from Miss Temple, of 
Dncie Bower. I hope you wiU not be very irritable, my 
child ; and pray vent your spleen upon your muleteer, and 
not upon your husband.' 

* Now, Ferdinand, how be so ridiculous ? ' 

* Oh ! I have no doubt I shall have to bear all the blame. 
"You brought me here," it will be, "ungrateful man, is 
this your love ? not even post-horses ! *" 

* As for that,' said Henrietta, 'perhaps we shall have to 


walk. I can fancy onrselves, you with an Anciftlnsian 
jacket, a long gun, and, I fear, a cigar ; and I with all the 

*' Children and all,* added Ferdinand. 

M iss Temple looked somewhat demure, turned away her 
face a little, but said nothing. 

*But what think you of Vienna, sweetest?* enquired 
Ferdinand in a more serious tone ; * upon my honour, I 
think we might do great things there. A regiment and a 
chamberlainship at the least ! ' 

* In mountains or in cities I shall be alike content, pro- 
vided you be my companion,* replied Miss Temple. 

Ferdinand lot go the reins, and dropped his whip. *My 
Henrietta,* he exclaimed, looking in her face, * what aa 
angel you are ! * 

This visit to Armine was so delightful to Miss Temple; 
she experienced so much gratification in wandering about 
the park and over the old castle, aoid gazing on GlastoDf 
bury's tower, and wondering when she should see him, and 
talking to her Ferdinand about every member of his femily, 
that Captain Armine, unable to withstand the irresistible cur- 
rent, postponed from day to day his decisive visit to Bath, 
and, confident in the future, would not permit his soul to be 
the least daunted by any possible conjuncture of ill fortnne. 
A week, a whole happy week glided away, and spent almost 
entirely at Armine. Their presence there was scarcely 
noticed by the single female servant who remained ; and, if 
her curiosity had been excited, she possessed no power of 
communicating it into Somersetshire. Besides, she was 
unaware that her young master was nominally in London. 
Sometimes an hour was snatched by Henrietta from roam- 
ing in the pleasaunce, and interchanging vows of mutual 
love and admiration, to the picture-gallery, where she had 
already commenced a miniature copy of the portrait of the 
great Sir Ferdinand. As the sun set they departed in their 


little eqnipage. Ferdinand wrapped his Henrietta in liis 
fur cloak, for the autumn dews began to rise, and, thus 
protected, the journey of ten miles was ever found too short. 
It is the habit of lovers, however innocent their passion, to 
grow every day less discreet ; for every day their almost 
constant companionship becomes more a necessity. Miss 
Temple had almost unconsciously contrived at -first that 
Captain Armine, in the absence of her father, should not be 
observed too often at Ducie; but now Ferdinand drove 
her home every evening, and drank tea at the Bower, and 
the evening closed with music and song. Each night he 
crossed over the common to his fjarm-house more fondly and 
devotedly in love. 

One morning at Armine, Henrietta being alone in the 
gallery busied with her drawing, Ferdinand having left her 
for a moment to execute some sHght commission for her, 
she heard some one enter, and, looking up to catch his 
glance of love, she beheld a venerable man, of a mild and 
benignant appearance, and dressed in black, standing, as if 
a little surprised, at some distance. Herself not less con- 
fused, she nevertheless bowed, and the gentleman advanced 
with hesitation, and with a faint blush returned her salute, 
and apologised for his intrusion. 'He thought Captain 
Armine might be there.' 

* He was here but this moment,' replied Miss Temple ; 
* and doubtless will instantly return.' Then she turned to 
her 'drawing with a trembUng hand. 

* I perceive, madam,' said the gentleman, advancing and 
speaking in a soft and engaging tone, while looking at her 
labour with a mingled air of diffidence and admiration, 
' that you are a fine artist.' 

* My wish to excel may have assisted my performance,' 
replied Miss Temple. 

' You are copying the portrait of a very extraordinary 
personage,' said the stranger. 



' Do you think that it is like Gaptaiii Armine P ' enquired 
Miss Temple with some hesitation. 

' It is always so considered,' replied the stranger. 

Henrietta's hand faltered ; she looked at the door of the 
gaUerj, then at the portrait ; never was she yet so ansdons 
for the reappearance of Ferdinand. There was a silence 
which she was compelled to hreak, for the stranger was 
both mute and motionless, and scarcely more assured than 

' Captain Armine will he here immediately, I have no 

The stranger bowed. ' If I might presume to criticise 
so finished a performance,' he remarked, ' I should say that 
you had conveyed, madam, a more youthful character than 
the original presents.' 

Henrietta did not venture to confess that such was her 
intention. She looked again at the door, mixed some 
colour, and then cleared it inmiediately off her pallette. 
' What a beautiful gallery is this ! ' she exclaimed, as she 
changed her brush, which was, however, without a fault. 

* It is worthy of Armine,' said the stranger. 

* Indeed there is no place so interesting,' said Miss 

' It pleases me to hear it praised,' said the stranger. 

* You are well acquainted with it ? ' enquired lidlss 

' I have the happiness to live here,' said the stranger. • 
' I am not then mistaken in believing that I speak to Mr. 

' Indeed, madam, that is my name,' replied the gentle- 
man ; * I fancy we have often heard of each other. This a 
most unexpected meeting, madam, but for that reason not 
less delightful. I have myself just returned from, a ramble 
of some days, and entered the gallery little aware that the 
family had arrived. You met, I suppose, my Ferdinand on 


the road. Ah ! you wonder, perhaps, at my fainiliar ex- 
pression, madam. He has been my Ferdinand so many 
years, that I cannot easily school myself no longer to siyle 
him 80. But I am aware that there are now other claims 

*My dearest Glastonbury,' exclaimed Ferdinand Armine, 
starting as he re-entered the gallery, and truly in as great 
a fright as a man could well be, who perhaps, but a few 
hours ago, was to conquer in Spain or Germany. At 
the same time, pale and eager, and talking with excited 
rapidity, he embraced his tutor, and scrutinised the coun- 
tenance of Henrietta to ascertain whether his fatal secret had 
been discovered. That countenance was fond, and, if not 
calm, not more confused than the unexpected appearance 
under the circumstances might account for. * You have often 
heard me mention Mr. Glastonbury,' he said, addressing 
himself to Henrietta. * Let me now have the pleasure of 
TnaVing you acquainted. My oldest, my best friend, my 
second father ; an admirable artist, too, I can assure you. 
He is qualified to decide even upon your skill. And when 
did you arrive, my dearest friend? and where have you 
been ? Our old haunts ? Many sketches ? What abbey 
have you explored, what antique treasures have you dis- 
covered ? I have such a fine addition for your herbal ! 
The Barbary cactus, just what you wanted ; I found it in 
my volume of Shelley ; and beautifully dried, beautifully ; 
it will quite charm you. What do you think of this 
drawing ? Is it not beautiftil ? quite the character, is it 
not ? ' Ferdinand paused, for lack of breath. 

* I was just observing as you entered,' said Glastonbury, 
very quietly, ' to Miss ' 

* I have several letters for you,' said Ferdinand, interrupt- 
ing him, and trembling from head to foot lest he might say 
Miss Qrandison, ' Do you know you are just the person 
I wanted to see ? • How fortunate that you should just 

N 2 


arrive ! I was so annoyed to find you were away. I 
cannot tell you how much I was annoyed ! * 

* Your dear parents ? * enquired Glastonbury. 

* Are quite well,' said Ferdinand, * perfectly well. They 
will be so glad to see you, so very glad. They do so long 
to see you, my dearest Glastonbury. You cannot imagine 
how they long to see you.' 

* I shall find them within, think, you ? ' enquired Glaston- 

* Oh ! they are not here,' said Ferdinand ; * they have 
not yet arrived. I expect them every day. Every day I 
expect them. I have prepared everything for them, every- 
thing. What a wonderful autumn it has been ! ' 

And Glastonbury fell into the lure, and talked about the 
weather, for he was learned in the seasons, and prophe- 
sied by many circumstances a hard winter. While he was 
thus conversing, Ferdinand extracted from Henrietta that 
Glastonbury had not been in the gallery more than a very 
few minutes ; and he felt assured that nothing fatal had 
transpired. All this time Ferdinand was reviewing his 
painful situation with desperate rapidity and prescience. 
All that he aspired to now was that Henrietta should quit 
Armine in as happy ignorance as she had arrived : as for 
Glastonbury, Ferdinand cared not what he might suspect, 
or ultimately discover. These were future evils that sub- 
sided into insignificance compared with any discovery on 
the part of Miss Temple. 

Comparatively composed, Ferdinand now suggested to 
Henrietta to quit her drawing, which indeed was so ad- 
vanced, that it might be finished at Ducie ; and, never 
leaving her side, and watching every look, and hanging on 
every accent of his old tutor, he even ventured to suggest 
that they should visit the tower. The proposal, he thought, 
might lull any sxispicion that might have been excited 
on the part of Miss Temple. Glastonbury expressed his 


gratification at tlie suggestion, and ihej quitted the galleiy, 
and entered the avenue of beecli trees. 

* I have heard so much of your tower, Mr. Glastonbury,* 
said Miss Temple, 'I am sensible, I assure you, of the 
honour of being admitted.' 

The extreme delicacy that was a characteristic of Glaston- 
bury, preserved Ferdinand Armine from the dreaded danger. 
It never for an instant entered Glastonbury's mind that 
Henrietta was not Miss Grandison. He thought it a little 
extraordinary, indeed, that she should arrive at Armine 
only in the company of Ferdinand ; but much might be 
allowed to plighted lovers ; besides, there might be some 
female companion, some aunt or cousin, for aught he knew, 
at the Place. It was only his parents that Ferdinand had 
said had not yet arrived. At all events, he felt at this 
momeDt that Ferdinand, perhaps, even because he was 
alone with his intended bride, had no desire that any formal 
introduction or congratulations should take place ; and only 
pleased that the intended wife of his pupil should be one 
BO beautiful, so gifted, and so gracious, one apparently so 
worthy in every way of his choice and her lot, Glastonbury 
relapsed into his accustomed ease and simplicity, and 
exerted himself to amuse the young lady with whom he 
had become so unexpectedly acquainted, and with whom, in 
all probability, it was his destiny in future to be so intimate. 
As for Henrietta, nothing had occurred in any way to give 
rise to the slightest suspicion in her mind. The agitation 
of Ferdinand at this unexpected meeting between his tutor 
and his betrothed was in every respect natural. Their en- 
gagement, as she knew, was at present a secret to all ; and 
although, under such circumstances, she herself at first was 
disposed not to feel very much at her ease, still she was so 
well acquainted with Mr. Glastonbury fix)m report, and he 
was so unlike the common chai*acters of the censorious 
world, that she was, from the first, far less annoyed than 


she otherwise would have been, and soon regained her usnal 
composure, and was even gratified and amused with the 

A load, however, fell from the heart of Ferdinand, when 
he and his beloved bade Glastonbury a good afbemoon. 
This accidental, and almost fatal interview terribly re- 
minded him o( his difficult and dangerous position; it 
seemed the commencement of a series of misconceptions, 
mortifications, aad misfortunes, which it waa absolutely 
necessary to prevent by instantly arresting them with the 
utmost energy and decision. It was bitter to quit Armine 
and all his joys, but in truth the arrival of his family was 
very doubtful : and, until the confession of his real situation 
was made, every day might bring some disastrous dis- 
covery. Some ominous clouds in the horizon formed a 
capital excuse for hurrying Henrietta off to Ducie. They 
quitted Armine at an unusually early hour. As they drove 
along, Ferdinand revolved in his mind the adventure of 
the morning, and endeavoured to stimulate himself to the 
exertion of instantly repairing to Bath. But he had not 
courage to confide his purpose to Henrietta. When, how- 
ever, they arrived at Ducie, they were welcomed with 
intelligence which rendered the decision, on his party abso- 
lutely necessary. But we will reserve this for the nexfc 



Miss Temple had run up stairs to take off her bonnet; 
Ferdinand stood before the wood fire in the saloon. Its 
clear, fragrant flame was agreeable after the cloudy sky 
of their somewhat chill drive. He was musing over the 


clianiis of his Henrietta, and longing for her reappearance, 
"wlien she entered ; but her entrance filled him with alarm. 
She was pale, her lips nearly as white as her forehead. An 
expression of dread was impressed on her agitated connte- 
najice. Ere he cotdd speak she held forth her hand to his 
extended grasp. It was cold, it trembled. 

* Good Gt)d ! yon are ill ! ' he exclaimed. 

* No ! ' she faintly mnrmured, * not ill.' And then she 
pansed, as if stifle^, leaning down her head with eyes fixed 
npon the ground. 

The conscience of Ferdinand pricked him. Had she 

But he was reassured by her accents of kindness. * Pardon 
me, dearest,' she said ; ' I am agitated ; I shall soon be 

He held her hand wi<^ firmness while she leant upon his 
shoulder. After a few minutes of harrowing silence, she 
said in a smothered voice, ' Papa returns to-morrow.' 

Ferdinand turned as pale as she ; the blood fled to his 
heart, his frame trembled, his knees tottered, his passive 
hand scarcely retained hers ; he could not speak. All the 
possible results of this return flashed across his mind, and 
presented themselves in terrible array to his alarmed ima- 
gination. He could not meet Mr. Temple; that was out 
of the question. Some explanation must immediately and 
inevitably ensue, and that must precipitate the fatal dis- 
covery. The great object was to prevent any communica- 
tion between Mr. Temple and Sir Rafcclifie before Ferdinand 
had broken his situation to his father. How he now wished 
he had not postponed his departure for Bath ! Had he only 
quitted Armine when first convinced of the hard necessity, 
the harrowing fixture would now have been, the past, the 
impending scenes, however dreadful, would have ensued ; 
perhaps he might have been at Ducie at this moment, with 
a clear conscience and a frank purpose, and with no diffi- 


cnlties to overcome but those which miist Becessarily ar:^^ 
from Mr. Temple's natural consideratioii for the welfare^ ^ 
his child. These, however difficnlt to combat, seemed lig-fc 
in comparison with the perplexities of his involved situa- 
tion. Ferdinand bore Henrietta to a seat, and hnng over 
her in agitated silence, which she ascribed only to bis 
sympathy for her distress, bnt which, in trath, was rather 
to be attribnted to his own uncertain purpose, and to the 
confosion of an invention which he now ransacked for 
desperate expedients. 

While he was thus revolving in his mind the course wbicli 
ke must now pursue, he sat down on the ottoman on which 
her feet rested, and pressed her hand to his lips while he 
summoned to his aid all the resources of his imagination. 
It at length appeared to him that the only mode by which 
he could now gain time, and secure himself from dangerous . 
explanations, was to involve Henrietta in a secret engage- 
ment. There was great difficulty, he was aware, in accom- 
plishing this purpose. Miss Temple was devoted to her 
£Bkther ; and though for a moment led away, by the omni- 
potent influence of an irresistible passion, to enter into a 
compact without the sanction of her parent, her present 
agitation too clearly indicated her keen sense that she had 
not conducted herself towards him in her accustomed spirit 
of unswerving and immaculate duty ; that, if not absolutely 
indelicate, her behaviour must appear to him very incon- 
siderate, very rash, perhaps even unfeeling. Unfeeling! 
What, to that father, that fond and widowed &ther, of 
whom she was the only and cherished child ! All his good- 
ness, all his unceasing care, all his anxiety, his ready sym- 
pathy, his watchfulness for her amusement, her comfort, 
her happiness, his vigilance in her hours of RiplmPfia, his 
pride in her beauty, her accomplishments, her affection, the 
smiles and tears of long, long years, all passed before her, 
tin at last she released herself with a quick movement from 


^^ hold of Ferdinand, and, clasping her hands together, 
'^^st into a sigh so bitter, so profound, so fiill of anguish, 
'*^a,t Ferdinand started from his seat. 

* Henrietta ! ' he exclaimed, ' my beloved Henrietta ! ' 

' Leave me,' she replied, in a tone almost of sternness. 

He rose and walked np and down the room, overpowered 
^y contending emotions. The severity of her voice, that 
voice that hitherto had fallen upon his ear Hke the warble 
of a summer bird, fiUed him with consternation. The idea 
of having offended her, of having seriously offended her, 
of being to her, to Henrietta, to Henrietta, that divinity to 
whom his idolatrous fancy clung with such rapturous devo- 
tion, in whose very smiles and accents it is no exaggeration 
to say he lived and had his being, the idea of being to her, 
even, for a transient moment, an object of repugnance, 
seemed something too terrible for thought, too intolerable 
for existence. All his troubles, all his cares, all his im- 
pending sorrows, vanished into thin air, compared with this 
unforeseen and sudden visitation. Oh ! what was future 
eviJ, what was to-morrow, pregnant as it might be with 
misery, compared with the quick agony of the instant ? 
So long as she smiled, every difficulty appeared surmount- 
able ; so lon^ as he could listen to her accents of tenderness, 
there was no dispensation with which he could not struggle. 
Gome what may, throned in the palace of her heart, he was 
a sovereign who might defy the world in arms ; but, thrust 
from that great seat, he was a fugitive without a hope, an 
aim, a desire ; dull, timid, exhausted, broken-hearted ! 

And she had bid him leave her. Leave her ! Henrietta 
Temple had bid him leave her ! Did he live ? Was this 
the same world in which a few hours back he breathed, 
and blessed his God for breathing ? What had happened ? 
What strange event, what miracle had occurred, to work 
this awful, this portentous change? Why, if she had 
known all, if she had suddenly shared that sharp and 


perpetual woe ever gnawing at his own secret Heart, even 
amid Ids joys ; if lie had revealed to her, if anyone had 
betrayed to her his distressing secret, could she have said 
more ? Why ! it was to shun this, it was to spare him- 
self this horrible catastrophe, that he had involved himself 
in his agonising, his inextricable difficulties. Inextricable 
they must be now ; for where, now, was the inspiration 
that before was to animate him to such great exploits? 
How could he struggle any longer with his fate ? How 
could he now carve out a destiny ? All that remained for 
him now was to die ; and, in the madness of his sensations, 
death seemed to him the most desirable consummatioiL 

The temper of a lover is exquisitely sensitive. Mortified 
and miserable, at any other time Ferdinand, in a fit of 
harassed love, might hav6 instantly quitted the presence of 
a mistress who had treated him with such unexpected and 
such undeserved harshness. But the thought of the mor- . 
row, the mournful conviction that this was the last oppor- 
tunity for their undisturbed communion, the recollection 
that, at all events, their temporary separation was impend- 
ing ; all these considerations had checked his first impulse. 
Besides, it must not be concealed that more than once it 
occurred to him that it was utterly impossible to permit 
Henrietta to meet her father in her present mood. With 
her determined spirit and strong emotions, and h&c diffi- 
culty of concealing her feelings ; smarting, too, tinder the 
consciousness of having parted with Ferdinand in anger, 
and of having treated him with injustice ; and, therefore^ 
doubly anxious to bring affairs to a crisis, a scene in all 
probability would instantly ensue ; and Ferdinand recoiled 
at present from the consequences of any explanations. 

Unhappy Ferdinand ! It seemed to him that he had 
never known misery before. He wrung his hands in 
despair ; his mind seemed to desert him. Suddenly he 
stopped ; he looked at Henrietta ; her face was still pale, 


«ler eyes fixed npon the decaying embers of the fire, lier 
^tidkide Tmchanged. Either she was nnconscions of his 
presence, or she did not choose to recognise it. What were 
lier thoughts ? 

Still of her feather ? Perhaps she contrasted that fond 
and fedth^ friend of her existence, to whom she owed such 
an incalculable debt of gratitude, with the acquaintance of 
the hour, to whom, in a moment of insanity, she had pledged 
the love that could alone repay it. Perhaps, in the spirit 
of self-torment, she conjured up against this too successfdl 
stranger all the menacing spectres of suspicion, distrust, 
and deceit; recalled to her recollection the too just and 
too frequent tales of man's impurity and ingratitude ; and 
tortored herself by her own apparition, the merited yictim 
of his harshness, his neglect, or his desertion. And when 
she had at the same time both shocked and alarmed her 
&nc7 by these distressful and degrading images, exhausted 
by these imaginary vexations, and eager for consolation in 
her dark despondency, she may have recurred to the yet 
binocent cause of her sorrow and apprehension, and per- 
haps accftised herself of cruelty and injustice for visiting on 
his head the mere consequences of her own fitful and mor- 
bid temper. She may have recalled his unvarying tender- 
ness, his unceasing admiration ; she may have recollected 
QiOBe impassioned accents that thrilled her heart, those 
glances of rapturous afiection that fixed her eye with 
fiiscination. She may have conjured up that form over 
vdiich of late she had mused in a trance of love, that form 
bright with so much beauty, beconing with so many graces^ 
adorned with so much intelligence, and hallowed by every 
romantic association that could melt the heart or mould the 
spirit of woman ; she may have conjured up this form, that 
was the god of her idolatry, and rushed again to the altar 
in an ecstasy of devotion. 

The shades of evening were fast descending, the curtains 


of the chamber were not closed, the blaze of the fire li0^ 
died away. The flickering light fell npon the solein^ 
countenance of Henrietta Temple, now buried in th^ 
shade, now transiently illumined by the fitful flame. 

On a sudden he advanced, with a step too light even to 
be heard, knelt at her side, and, not venturing to touch her 
hand, pressed his lips to her arm, and with streaming eyes, 
and in a tone of plaintive tenderness, murmured, * What 
have I done ? ' 

She turned, her eyes met his, a wild expression of fear, 
surprise, delight, played over her countenance ; then, burst- 
ing into tears, she threw her arms round his neck, and hid 
her face upon his breast. 

He did not disturb this eflusion of her suppressed emo- 
tions. His throbbing heart responded to her tumultuous 
soul. At length, when the strength of her passionate 
affections had somewhat decreased, when the convulsive 
sobs had subsided into gentle sighs, and ever and anon he 
felt the pressure of her sweet lips sealing her remorseful 
love and her charming repentance upon his bosom, he dared 
to say, * Oh ! my Henrietta, you did not doubt yotit Ferdi- 

'Dearest Ferdinand, you are too good, too kind, too 
faultless, and I am very wicked.' 

Taking her hand and covering it with kisses, he said in 
a distinct, but very low voice, * Now tell me, why were you 
unhappy ? ' 

*Papa,' sighed Henrietta, 'dearest papa, that the day 
should come when I should grieve to meet him ! ' 

* And why should my darling grieve ? ' said Ferdinand. 

* I know not ; I ask myself, what have I done ? what have 
I to fear ? It is no crime to love ; it may be a misfortune ; 
Ood knows that I have almost felt to-night that such it 
was. But no, I never will believe it can be either wrong 
or unhappy to love you.' 


* Bless yon, for sucli sweet words,' replied Ferdinand. 
Xf my heart can make yon happy, felicity shall be yonr 

* It is my lot. I am happy, quite happy, and gratefiil foip 
my happiness.' 

* And your father, our father let me call him (she pressed 
Ms hand when he said this), he will be happy too ? ' 

* So I would hope.' 

* If the ftilfilment of my duty can content him,' continued 
Ferdinand, ' Mr. Temple shall not repent his son-in-law.' 

* Oh ! do not call him Mr. Temple ; call him father. I 
love to hear you call him father.' 

* Then what alarms my child ? ' 

* I hardly know,' said Henrietta in a hesitating tone. * I 
think, I think it is the suddenness of all this. He has 
gone, he comes again ; he went, he returns ; and all has 
happened. So short a time, too, Ferdinand. It is a life 

to ns ; to him, I fear,' and she hid her face, ' it is only 

a fortnight.' 

* We have seen more of e£ich other, and known more of 
each other, in this fortnight, than we might have in an 
acquaintance which had continued a life.' 

* That's true, that's very true. We feel this, Ferdinand, 
because we know it. But papa will not feel like us : we 
cannot expect him to feel like us. He does not know my 
Ferdinand as I know him. Papa, too, though the dearest, 
kindest, fondest father that ever lived, though he has no 
thought but for my happiness and lives only for his 
daughter, papa naturally is not so young as we are. He 
is, too, what is called a man of the world. He has seen a 
great deal ; he has formed his opinions on men and life. 
We cannot expect that he will change them in your, I 
mean in our, favour. Men of the world are of the world,, 
worldly. I do not think they are always right ; I do not 
myself^ believe in their infallibility. There is no person 


more clever and more jndicions than papa. No person ia 
more considerate. But there are characters so rare, th&t 
men of the world do not admit them into their general 
calculations, and such is yonrs, Ferdinand.' 

Here Ferdinand seemed plnnged in thonghtj bat he pressed 
her hand, thongh he said nothing. 

*He will think we have known each other too short a 
time,' continxied Miss Temple. * He will be mortified, per- 
haps alarmed, when I inform him I am no longer his.' 

' Then do not inform him,' said Ferdinand. 

She started. 

' Let me inform him,' continued Ferdinand, giving another 
torn to his meaning, and watching her conntenonce with 
an unfaltering eye. 

'Dearest Ferdinand, always prepared to bear eveiy 
burthen ! ' exclaimed Miss Temple. ' How generous and 
good you are ! No, it would be better for me to speak first 
to my father. My soul, I will never have a secret from 
you, and you, I am sure, will never have one from, your 
Henrietta. This is the truth ; I do not repent the past, 
I glory in it ; I am yours, and I am proud to be yours. 
Were the past to be again acted, I would not falter. But I 
cannot conceal from myself that, so far as my fietther is con- 
cerned, I have not conducted myself towards bim with 
fiankness, with respect, or with kindness. There is no 
fault in loving you. Even were he to regret, he could not 
blame such an occurrence: but he will regret, be will 
blame, he has a right both to regret and blame, my doing 
more than love you ; my engagement, without his advice, 
his sanction, his knowledge, or even his suspicion ! ' 

' You take too refined a view of our situation,' replied 
Ferdinand. * Why should you not spare your father the 
pain of such a communication, if painful it would -be ? 
What has passed is between ourselves, and ought to be 
between ourselves. If I request his permission to offer you 


ind, and lie yields liis consent, is not that ceremonj. 

lave never ooncealed anything from papa,' said Hen« 
, * but I will be guided by you.' 

ave, then, all to me,' said Ferdinand ; * bo guided 
T the judgment of your own Ferdinand, my Henrietta, 
elieve me all will go right. I will break this intelli- 
to your fether. So we will settle it ? ' he continued 
shall be so.' 

len arises the question,' said Ferdinand, 'when it 
be most advisable for me to make the communication, 
your father, Henrietta, who is a man of the world, 
f course expect that, when I do make it, I shall be 
red to speak definitely to him upon all matters of 
jss. He will think, otherwise, that I am trifling 
lim. To go and request of a man like your father, 
iwd, experienced man of the world like Mr. Temple, 
ssion to marry his daughter, without showing to Viim 
am prepared with the means of maintaining a fiainily, 
e short of madness. He would be offended with me, 
)uld be prejudiced against me. I must, therefore, 
something first with Sir Ratcliffe. Much, you know, 
.unately, I cannot offer your father ; but still, sweet 
here must at least be an appearance of providence 
anagement. We must not disgust your fie^ther with 

L ! how can he be disgusted ?' 

ar one ! This, then, is what I propose ; that, as to- 
w we must comparatively be separated, I should take 
bage of the next few days, and get to Bath, and bring some arrangement. Until my return I would 
you to say nothing to your father.' 
w can I hve under the same roof with Tn'm^ under 
Lrcumstances ?' exclaimed Miss Temple ; 'how can I 


meet his eye, Low can I speak to him with the conscLons- 
ness of a secret engagement, with the recollection that, all 
the time he is lavishing his affection npon me, mj heart fs 
yearning for another, and that, while he is laying plans of 
future companionship, I am meditating, perhaps, an eternal 
separation ! ' 

' Sweet Henrietta, listen to me one moment. Suppose I 
had quitted you last night for Bath, merely for this pur- 
pose, as indeed we had once thought o^ and that your 
father had arrived at Ducie before I had returned to make 
my communication : would you style your^ silence, under 
such circumstances, a secret engagement ? No, no, dear 
love; this is an abuse of terms. It would be a delicate 
oonsideration for a parent's feelings.* 

' O Ferdinand ! would we were united, and had no 
cares ! ' 

*You would not consider our projected union a secret 
engagement, if, after passing to-morrow with your father, 
you expected me on the next day to communicate to him 
our position. Is it any more a secret engagement becanse 
six or seven days are to elapse before this conmiunication 
takes place, instead of one ? My Henrietta is indeed fight- 
ing with shadows ! ' 

' Ferdinand, I cannot reason like you; but I feel unhappj 
when I think of this.' 

' Dearest Henrietta ! feel only that you are loved. Think, 
darling, the day will come when we shall smile at all these 
cares. All will flow smoothly yet, and we shall all yet live 
at Armine, Mr. Temple and all.' 

'Papa hkes you so much too, Ferdinand, I should be 
miserable if you offended him.' 

* Which I certainly should do if I were not to speak tfl 
Sir Ratcliffe first.' 

* Do you, indeed, think so ? * 

* Indeed I am certain.' 


'But cannot yon write to Sir Ratcliffe, Ferdinand? 
ilust you really go ? Must we, indeed, be separated ? I 
t»nnot believe it; it is inconceivable; it is impossible; I 
cannot endnre it.' 

* It is, indeed, terrible,' said Ferdinand. * This considera- 
tion alone reconciles me to the necessity : I know my 
&ther well ; his only answer to a commnnication of this 
kind would be an immediate summons to his side. Now, 
is it not better that this meeting should take place when 
we must necessarily be much less together than before, than 
at a later period, when we may, perhaps, be constant com- 
panions with the sanction of our parents ? ' 

* O Ferdinand ! you reason, I only feel.' 

Such an observation from one's mistress is rather a 
reproach than a compliment. It was made, in the present 
Instance, to a man whose principal characteristic was, 
perhaps, a too dangerous snEceptibility ; a man of profound 
Euid violent passions, yet of a most sweet and tender temper; 
capable of deep reflection, yet ever acting from the impulse 
of sentiment, and ready at all times to sacrifice every con- 
Bideration to his heart. The prospect of separation from 
Efenrietta, for however short a period, was absolute agony 
to him; he found difficulty in conceiving existence without 
the influence of her perpetual presence : their parting even 
for the night was felt by him as an onerous deprivation. 
The only process, indeed, that could at present prepare and 
console him for the impending sorrow, would have been 
the frank indulgence of the feelings which it called forth. 
Yet behold him, behold this unhappy victim of circum- 
stances, forced to deceive, even for her happiness, the being 
whom he idolised ; compelled, at this hour of anguish, to 
bridle his heart, lest he should lose for a fatal instant his 
command over his head ; and, while he was himself con- 
scious that not in the wide world, perhaps, existed a man 
^ho was sacrificing more for his mistress, obliged to endure, 


eyen from her lips, a remark whicli seemed to impute to 
him a deficiency of feeling. And yet it was too mncli ; lie 
covered his eyes with his hand, and said, in a low and 
broken voice, * Alas ! my Henrietta, if you knew all, you 
would not say this ! ' 

* My Ferdinand,' she exclaimed, fx)uched by that tender 
and melancholy tone, *why, what is this? you weep! 
What have I said, what done ? Dearest Ferdinand, do not 
do this.' And she threw herself on her knees before him, 
and looked up into his face with scrutinising affection. 

He bent down his head, and pressed his lips to her fore- 
head. * O Henrietta ! ' he exclaimed, * we have been bo 
happy ! ' 

* And shall be so, my own. Doubt not my word, all will 
go right. I am so sorry, I am so miserable, that I made 
you unhappy to-night. I shall think of it when you are 
gone. I shall remember how naughty I was. It was bo 
wicked, so very, very wicked ; and he was so good.' 

* Grone 1 what a dreadM word ! And shall we not Ijo 
together to-morrow, Henrietta? Oh! what a morrow! 
Think of me, dearest. Do not let me for a moment escape 
from your memory.' 

' Tell me exactly your road ; let me know exactly where 
you will be at every hour ; write to me on the road ; if it 
be only a line, only a little word ; only his dear name ; only 
Ferdinand I ' 

'And how shall I write to you ? Shall I direct to yon 

Henrietta looked perplexed. ' Papa opens the bag every 
morning, and every morning you must write, or I shaO 
die. Ferdinand, what is to be done ? ' 

* I will direct to you at the post-office. You must send 
for your letters.' 

' I tremble. Believe me, it will be noticed. It will look 
so, so, so, so clandestine.' 


[ will direct them to yonr maid. She most be our 
Ferdinand ! ' 
Tis only for a week.' 

) Ferdinand ! Love teaches us strange things.' 
^j darling, believe me, it is wise and well. Think how 
late we should be without constant correspondence, 
or myself, I shall write to you every hour, and, unless 
EfcT from you as often, I shall believe only in evil ! ' 
ict it be as you wish. God knows my heart is pure. 
3tend no longer to regulate my destiny. I am yours, 
[inand. Be you responsible for all that affects my 
>ur or my heart.' 

L precious trust, my Henrietta, and dearer to me than 
lie glory of my ancestors.' 

16 dock sounded eleven. Miss Temple rose. * It is so 

and we in darkness here ! What will they think ? 

linand, sweetest, rouse the fire. I ring the bell. Lights 

come, and then ' Her voice faltered. 

Lnd then ' echoed Ferdinand. He took up his 

ar, but he could not command his voice, 
lis your guitar,' said Henrietta ; ' I am happy that it is 

he servant entered with lights, drew the curtains, 
iwed the fire, arranged the room, and withdrew, 
[atile knows he our misery,' said Henrietta. * It seemed 
nge^ when I felt my own mind, that there could be 
iihing so calm and mechanical in the world.' 
'erdroand was silent. Ho felt that the hour of departure 
indeed arrived, yet he had not courage to move. Hen- 
lia^ too, did not speak. She reclined on the sofa, as it 
«, exhausted, and placed her handkerchief over her face, 
dinand leant over the fire. He was nearly tempted to 
d tip his project, confess all to his farther by letter, and 
kit his decision. Then he conjured up the dreadftd 



scenes at Bath, and then he remembered that, at all eventB, 
to-morrow he must not appear at Dude. * Henrietta ! ' lie 
at length said. 

' A minute, Ferdinand, yet a minute,' she exclaimed in an 
excited tone ; ' do not speak, I am preparing myself.' 

He remained iu his leaning posture ; and in a few 
moments Miss Temple rose and said, ' Now, Ferdinand, I 
am ready.' He looked round. Her countenance was quite 
pale, but fixed and calm. 

' Let us embrace,' she said, 'but let us say nothing.' 

He pressed her to his arms. She trembled. He im- 
printed a thousand kisses on her cold lips ; she receiYcd 
them with no return. Then she said in a low voice, *Let 
mo leave the room first ; ' and, giving him one kiss upon 
his forehead, Henrietta Temple disappeared. 

When Ferdinand with a sinking heart and a staggering 
step quitted Ducie, he found the night so dark that it was 
with extreme difficulty he traced, or rather groped, his "way 
through the grove. The absolute necessity of watching 
every step he took in some degree diverted his mind from 
his painful meditations. The atmosphere of the wood was 
so close, that he congratulated himself when he had gained 
its skirts ; but just as he was about to emerge upon the 
common, and T^'as looking forward to the light of some 
cottage as his guide in this gloomy wilderness, a flash of 
lightning that seemed to cut the sky in twain, and to 
descend like a flight of fiery steps from the highest heayens 
to the lowest earth, revealed to him for a moment the 
whole broad bosom of the common, and showed to him that 
nature to-night was as disordered and perturbed as his own 
heart. A clap of thunder, that might have been the herald 
of Doomsday, woke the cattle from their slumbers, which 
began to moan and low to the rising wind, and cluster 
under the trees, that sent forth with their wailing branches 
sounds scarcely less dolorous and wild. Avoiding the woods, 


and striking into the most open part of the country, Ferdi- 
nand watclied the progress of the tempest. 

For the wind had now risen to such a height that the 
leaves and branches of the trees were carried about in vast 
whirls and eddies, while the waters of the lake, where in 
serener hours Ferdinand was accustomed to bathe, were 
lifted out of their bed, and inundated the neighbouring 
settlements. Lights were now seen moving in the cottages, 
and then the forked lightning, pouring down at the same 
time from opposite quarters of the sky, exposed with an 
awftd distinctness, and a fearful splendour, the wide-spread- 
ing scene of danger and devastation. 

Wow descended the rain in such overwhelming torrents, 
that it was as if a waterspout had burst, and Ferdinand 
gasped for breath beneath its oppressive power ; while the 
blaze of the variegated lightning, the crash of the thunder, 
and the roar of the wind, all simultaneously in movement, 
indicated the fulness of the storm. Succeeded then that 
strange lull that occurs in the heart of a tempest, when the 
imruly and disordered elements pause, as it were, for breath, 
and seem to concentrate their energies for an increased and 
final explosion. It came at last ; and the very earth seemed 
to rock in the passage of the hurricane. 

Exposed to all the awful chances of the storm, one soli- 
tary being alone beheld them without terror. The mind of 
Ferdinand Armine grew calm, as nature became more dis- 
turbed. He moralised amid the whirlwind. He contrasted 
the present tumult and distraction with the sweet and 
beautiful serenity which the same scene had presented when, 
a short time back, he first beheld it. His love, too, had 
commenced in stillness and in sunshine ; was it, also, to 
end in storm and in destruction ? 






Let us pause. We have endeavoured to trace, in tlie pre- 
ceding portion of this history, the development of that 
passion that is at once the principle and end of our exist- 
ence ; that passion compared to whose delights all the 
other gratifications of our nature — wealth, and power, and 
fame, sink into insignificance ; and which, nevertheless, by 
the ineffable beneficence of our Creator, are open to his 
creatures of all conditions, qualities, and climes. Whatever 
be the lot of man, however unfortunate, however oppressed, 
if he only love and be loved, he must strike a balance in 
favour of existence ; for love can illumine the dark roof of 
poverty, and can lighten the fetter of the slave. 

But, if the most miserable position of humanity be toler- 
able with its support, so also the most splendid sitliations 
of our life are wearisome without its inspiration. The 
golden palace requires a mistress as magnificent ; and the 
fairest garden, besides the song of birds and the breath of 
flowers, calls for the sigh of sympathy. It is at the foot of 
woman that we lay the laurels that without her smile would 
never have been gained : it is her image that strings the 
lyre of the poet, that animates our voice in the blaze of 
eloquent faction, and guides our brain in the august toils 
of stately councils. 

But this passion, so charming in its nature, so equal in 


its dispensation, so universal in its influence, never assumes 
a power so vast, or exerts an authority so captivating, as 
"when it is experienced for the first time. Then it is truly 
irresistible and enchanting, fascinating and despotic ; and, 
whatever may be the harsher feelings that life may develop, 
there is no one, however callous or constrained he may have 
become, whose brow will not grow pensive at the memory 
of Jtbst love. 

The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can ever 
end. It is the dark conviction that feelings the most ardent 
liiay yet grow cold, and that emotions the most constant 
and confirmed are, nevertheless, liable to change, that 
taints the feebler spell of our later passions, though they 
may spring from a heart that has lost littie of its original 
freshness, and be offered to one infinitely more worthy of 
the devotion than our first idolatry. To gaze upon a face, 
and to believe that for ever we must behold it with the 
same adoration ; that those eyes, in whose light we live, will 
for ever meet ours with mutual glances of rapture and 
devotedness; to be conscious that all conversation with 
others sounds vapid and spiritless, compared with the end- 
less expression of our affection ; to feel our heart rise at the 
favoured voice ; and to believe that life must hereafter con- 
sist of a ramble through the world, pressing but one fond 
hand, and leaning but upon one faithful breast ; oh ! must 
this sweet credulity indeed be dissipated? Is there no 
hope for them so fall of hope ? no pity for them so abound- 
ing with love ? 

And can it be possible that the hour can ever arrive when 
the former votaries of a mutual passion so exquisite and 
engrossing can meet each other with indifference, almost 
with unconsciousness, and recall with an effort their vanished 
scenes of felicity, that quick yet profound sympathy, that 
ready yet boundless confidence, all that charming abandon- 
ment of self, and that vigilant and prescient fondness that 


anticipates all our wants and all our wishes ? It makes 4 
the heart ache but to picture such vicissitudes to the imagi- ^ 
nation. They are images full of distress, and misery, and^ 
gloom. The knowledge that such changes can occur, flit^ 
over the mind like the thought of death, obscuring all oximr 
gay fancies with its bat-hke wing, and tainting the health^ 
atmosphere of our happiness with its venomous expirations^ 
It is not so much ruined cities that were once the capit^^ 
glories of the world, or mouldering temples breathing witz. 1 
oracles no more believed, or arches of triumph that ha^-« 
forgotten the heroic name they were piled up to celebrati^e^ 
that fill the mind with half so moumfxil an expression of 
the instabiUty of human fortunes, as these sad spectacles of 
exhausted affections, and, as it were, traditionary fragments 
of expired passion. 

The morning, that broke sweet, and soft, and clear, 
brought Ferdinand, with its first glimmer, a letter fix)m 

Henrietta to Ferdinand. 

Mine own! I have not laid down the whole night. 
What a terrible, what an awful night ! To think that he 
was in the heart of that fearful storm ! What did, what 
could you do ? How I longed to be with you ! And I 
could only watch the tempest from my window, and strain 
luy eyes at every flash of lightning, in the vain hope that 
it might reveal him ! Is he well, is he unhurt ? Until my 
messenger return I can imagine only evil. How often I 
was on the point of sending out the household, and yet I 
thought .t must be useless, and might displease him ! I 
knew not what to do. I beat about my chamber like a 
silly bird in a cage. Tell me the truth, my Ferdinand; 
conceal nothing. Do not think of moving to-day. If you 
feel the least unwell, send immediately for advice. Write 
to me one line, only one line, to tell me you are well. I 


liall be in despair until I hear from you. Do not keep the 

aessenger an instant. He is on my pony. He promises to 

etum in a very, very short time. I pray for you, as I 

►rayed for you the whole long night, that seemed as if it 

^ould never end. God bless you, my Ferdinand ! Write 

mly one word to your own 


Ferdinand to Henrietta, 

Sweetest, deaeest Henrietta ! 

I am quite well, and love you, if that could be, more than 
Bver. Darling, to send to see after her Ferdinand ! A wet 
jacket, and I experienced no greater evil, docs not frighten 
me. The storm was magjiificent ; I would not have missed 
it for the world. But I regret it now, because my Henrietta 
did not sleep. Sweetest love, let me come on to you ! Your 
page is inexorable. He will not let me write another line. 
Qod bless you, my Henrietta, my beloved, my matchless 
Henrietta ! Words cannot tell you how I love you, how I 
dote upon you, my darling. 

Thy Ferdinand. 

Henrietta to Ferdinand, 

No ! you must not come here. It would be unwise, it 
would be silly. We could only be together a moment, and^ 
though a moment with you is heaven, I cannot endure again 
the agony of parting. O Ferdinand! what has that sepa- 
ration not cost me ! Pangs that I could not conceive any 
human misery could occasion. My Ferdinand, may we 
some day be happy ! It seems to me now that happiness 
can never come a^ain. And yet I ought to be grateful that 
he was uninjured last night. I dared not confess to you 
before what evils I anticipated. Do you know I was so 
foolish that I thought every flash of lightning must descend 
on your head. I dare not now own how foolish I was. 


God be praised that he is well. But is he siire that he is 
quite well ? If you have the slightest cold, dearest, do not 
move. Postpone that jonmey on which all onr hopes are 
fixed. Colds bring fever. But you laugh at me ; yon are 
a man and a soldier ; you laugh at a woman's caution. Oh! 
my Ferdinand, I am so selfish that I should not care if you 
were ill, if I might only be your nurse. What happiness, 
what exquisite happiness, would that be ! 

Do not be angry with your Henrietta, but T am nervous 
about conceahng our engagement fix)m papa. What I have 
promised I will perform, fear not that ; I will never deceive 
you, no, not even for your fancied benefit ; but I feel the 
burthen of this secrecy more than I can express, more than 
I wish to express. I do not like to say anything that can 
ftnnoy you, especially at this moment, when I feel from my 
own heart how you must require all the support and solace 
of unbroken fondness. I have such confidence in your 
judgment, my Ferdinand, that I feel convinced you have 
acted wisely ; but come back as soon as you can. I know 
it must be more than a week ; I know that that prospect 
was only held out by your affection. Days must elapse 
before you can reach Bath ; and I know, Ferdinand, I 
know your oJQBce is more difficult than you will confess. 
But come back, my own, as soon as you can, and write to 
me at the post-office, as you settled. 

If you are well, as you say, leave the farm directly. The 
consciousness that you are so near makes me restless. 
Remember, in a few hours papa will be here. I wish to 
meet him with as much calmness as I can command. 

Ferdinand, I must bid you adieu! My tears are too 
evident. See, they fall upon the page. Think of me 
always. Never let your Henrietta be absent from your 
thoughts. If you knew how desolate this house is ! Your 
guitar is on the sofa ; a ghost of departed joy ! 

Farewell, Ferdinand ! I cannot write, I cannot restrain 


r tears. I know not what to do. I almost wish papa 
udd return, though I dread to see him. I feel ihe 
solation of this house, I am so accustomed to see you 

Heaven be with you, and guard over you, and cherish 
u, and bless you. Think always of me. Would that 
is pen could express the depth and devotion of my 
)lings ! 




SABEST ! A thousand, thousand thanks, a thousand, thou- 
ud blessings, for your letter from Armine, dear, dear 
mine, where some day we shall be so happy I It was 
bIl a darling letter, so long, so kind, and so clear. How 
old you for a moment fancy that your Henrietta would 
t be able to decipher that dear, dear handwriting! 
ways cross, dearest : your handwriting is so beautiful 
at I never shall find the slightest difl&culty in making it 
t, if your letters were crossed a thousand times. Besides, 
tell the truth, I should rather like to experience a little 
EBcnliy in reading your letters, for I read them so often, 
er and over again, tiU I get them by heart, and it is such 
delight every now and then to find out some new expres- 
)n that escaped me in the first fever of perusal ; and then 
is sure to be some darling word, fonder than all the rest ! 
Oh ! my Ferdinand, how shall I express to you my love ? 
seems to me now that I never loved you until this separa- 
)n, that I have never been half grateful enough to you 
r all your goodness. It makes me weep to remember all 
e soft things you have said, all the kind things you have 


done for me, and to tliink that I have not conveyed to you 
at the time a tithe of my sense of all your gentle kindness. 
You are so gentle, Ferdinand ! I think that is the greatest 
charm of your character. My gentle, gentle love ! so un- 
like all other persons that I have met with ! Your voice 
is so sweet, your manner so tender, I am sure you have 
the kindest heart that ever existed : and then it is a daring 
spirit, too, and that I love ! Be of good cheer, my Ferdinand, 
all will go well. I am full of hope, and would be of joy, if 
you were here, and yet I am joyful, too, when I think of all 
your love. I can sit for hours and recall the past, it is so 
sweet. When I received your dear letter from Armine 
yesterday, and knew indeed that you had gone, I went and 
walked in our woods, and sat down on the very bank we 
loved so, and read your letter over and over again; and. 

then I thought of all you had said. It is so strange ; E 
think I could repeat every word you have uttered since we 
first knew each other. The morning that began so miser- 
able, wore away before T dreamed it could be noon. 

Papa arrived about an hour before dinner. So kind anc 
good! And why should he not be? I was ashamed o- 
myself afterwards for seeming surprised that he was thi 
same as ever. He asked me if your &jnily had returned 
Armine. I said that you had expected them daily. The 
he asked me if I had seen you. I said very often, but 
you had now gone to Bath, as their return had been 

vented by the illness of a relative. Did I right in this ? 
I looked as unconcerned as I could when I spoke of yo"^D, 
but my heart throbbed, oh ! how it throbbed ! I hof^ ^, 
however, I did not change colour ; I think not ; for I h^^ 
schooled myself for this conversation. I knew it. inxm-ist 
ensue. Believe me, Ferdinand, papa really likes you, arKud 
is prepared to love you. He spoke of you in a tone <jf 
genuine kindness. I gave him your message about tiiie 
shooting at Armine ; that you regretted his unexpecfc^d. 


departure liad prevented you from speaking before, but 
that it was at his entire command, only that, after Ducie, 
all you could hope was, that the extent of the land might 
make up for the thinness of the game. He was greatly 

Adieu ! All good angels guard over you. I will write 
every day to the post-office, Bath. Think of me very much. 
Xour own faithful HENRiErrA. 

Letter n. 

H&iirietta to Ferdinand, 

O Ferdinand, what heaven it is to think of you, and to read 
your letters ! This morning brought me two ; the one 
from London, and the few lines you wrote me as the mail 
stopped on the road. Do you know, you will think me 
very ungrateful, but those dear few lines, I beheve I must 
confess, I prefer them even to your beautifiil long letter. 
It was so kind, so tender, so sweetly considerate, so like 
my Ferdinand, to snatch the few minutes that should have 
been given to rest and food to write to his Henrietta. I 
love you for it a thousand times more than ever ! I hope 
you are really well : I hope you tell me truth. This is a 
great fatigue, even for you. It is worse than our mules 
that we once talked of. Does he recollect ? Oh ! what 
joyous spirits my Ferdinand was in that happy day ! I 
love him when he laughs, and yet I think he won my heart 
with those pensive eyes of his ! 

Papa is most kind, and suspects nothing. Yesterday I 

mentioned you first. I took up your guitar, and said to 

whom it belonged. I thought it more natural not to be 

ailent about you. Besides, dearest, papa really likes you, 

aoid I am sure will love you very much when he knows all, 

^nd it is such a pleasure to me to hear you praised and 

spoken of with kindness by those I love. I have, of course, 


little to say about myself. I visit my birds, tend my 
flowers, and pay particular attention to all those I remem- 
ber that you admired or touched. Sometimes I whisper to 
them, and teU them that you will soon return, for, indeed, 
they seem to miss you, and to droop their heads like their 
poor mistress. Oh ! my Ferdinand, shall we ever again 
meet ? Shall I, indeed, ever again listen to that sweet voice, 
and will it tell me again that it loves me with the very 
selfsame accents that ring even now in my fascinated ear ? 
O Ferdinand ! this love is a fever, a fever of health. I 
cannot sleep ; I can scarcely countenance my father at his 
meals. I am wild and restless ; but I am happy, happy in 
the consciousness of your fond devotion. To-morrow I 
purpose visiting our farm-house. I think papa will shoot 
to-morrow. My heart will throb, I fancy, when I see our 
porch. God bless my own love ; the idol of his fond and 
happy Hbneibtta. 

Letter HI. 

Senrletta to Ferdinand, 

Dearest ! No letter since the few lines on the road, but 
I suppose it was impossible. To-morrow will bring me 
one, I suppose, fix)m Bath. I know not why I tremble 
when I write that word. All is well here, papa most kind, 
the same as ever. He went a little on your land to-day, a 
very little, but it pleased me. He has kiUed an Armine 
hare ! Oh ! what a morning have I spent ; so happy, so 
sorrowfal, so full of tears and smiles 1 I hardly know 
whether I laughed or wept most. That dear, dear farm- 
house 1 And then they all talked of you. How they do 
love my Ferdinand ! But so must everyone. The poor 
woman has lost her heart to you, I suspect, and I am half 
inclined to be a little jealous. She did so praise yon ! So 
kind, so gentle, giving such little trouble, and, as I fear, 


ncli too generous ! Exactly like my Ferdinand ; but, 
y, this was unnecessary. Pardon me, love, but I am 
ling prudence. 

> you know, I went into your room ? I contrived to 
id alone ; the good woman followed me, but I was 
5 alone a moment, and, and, and, wbat do you think 
L ? I pressed my lips to your pillow. I could not help 
^hen I thought that his dear head had rested there so 
I and so lately, I could not refimu from pressing my 
fco that favoured resting-place, and I am afraid I shed 
LT besides. 

Tien mine own love receives this he will be at Bath. 
'' I pray that you may find all your family well and 
)y ! I hope they will love me. I already love them, 
dear, dear Armine. I shall never have courage to go 
e again until your return. It is night, and I am writing 
in my own room. Perhaps the hour may have its 
lence, but I feel depressed. Oh, that I were at your 
! This house is so desolate without you. Everything 
inds me of the past. My Ferdinand, how can I express 
ou what I feel — the affection, the love, the rapture, the 
ionate joy, with which your image inspires me ? I 
not be miserable, I will be grateful to Heaven that I 
loved by one so rare and gifted. Your portrait is 
re me ; I call it yours ; it is 'so Hke ! 'Tis a great con- 
aon. My heart is with you. Think of me as I think 
>u. Awako or asleep my thoughts are alike yours, and 
I am going to pray for you. 

Thine own Heneietta. 

Letter IX. 

BEST BELOVED ! The Week is long past, but you say 
king of returning. Oh ! my Ferdinand, your Henrietta is 


not happy. I read yonr dear letters over and over agai^ 
They ought to make me happy. I feel in the conscionsneSi 
of your affection that I ought to be the happiest person i: 
the world, and yet, I know not why, I am very depressea 
You say that all is going well ; but why do yon not ente 
into detail ? There are diflSculties ; I am prepared fa 
them. Believe me, my Ferdinand, that your Henrietta cai 
<^ndure as well as enjoy. Your father, he firowns upon on 
affection ? Tell me, tell me all, only do not leave me i 
suspense. I am entitled to your confidence, Ferdinan< 
It makes me hate myself to think that I do not share yoc 
cares as well as your delights. I am jealous of yotj 
sorrows, Ferdinand, if I may not share them. 

Do not let your brow be clouded when yon read tbii 
I could kill myself if I thought I could increase you 
difficulties. I love you ; God knows how I love yon. J 
will be patient ; and yet, my Ferdinand, I feel wretched 
when I think that all is concealed from papa,' and my lips 
are sealed until you give me permission to open them. 

Pray write to me, and tell me really how affairs arc 
Be not afraid to tell your Henrietta everything. There 
is no misery so long as we love ; so long as your heart is 
mine, there is nothing which I cannot face, nothing which, 
I am persuaded, we cannot overcome. God bless yoUi 
Ferdinand. Words cannot express my love. 


Letter X. 

Mine own ! I wrote to you yesterday a letter of complainta 
I am so sorry, for your dear letter has come to-day, and it u 
«o kind, so fond, so affectionate, that it makes me miserabh 
that I should occasion you even a shade of annoyance 
Dearest, how I long to prove my love ! There is nothinj 
that I would not do, nothing that I would not endure, t> 
convince you of my devotion ! I will do all tliat you wist 


1 ^ill be calm, I will be patient, I will try to be content. 
You say that yon are snre all will go right ; but yon tell 
me nothing. What said your dear fiather ? your mother ? 
Be not a&aid to speak. 

You hid me tell you all that I am doing. Oh ! my Fer- 
dinand, life is a blank without you. I have seen no one, 
I liave spoken to no one, save papa. He is very kind, and 
yet somehow or other I dread to be with him. This house 
seems so desolate, so very desolate. It seems a deserted 
place since your departure, a spot that some good genius 
luts quitted, and all the glory has gone. I never care for 
T^J birds or flowers now. They have lost their music and 
their sweetness. And the woods, I cannot walk in them, 
and the garden reminds me only of the happy past. I have 
never been to the ferm-house again. I could not go now, 
Nearest Ferdinand ; it would only make me weep. I think 
only of the morning, for it brings me your letters. I feed 
npon them, I live upon them. They are my only joy 

*nd solace, and yet but no complaints to-day, no 

complaints, dearest Ferdinand; let me only express my. 
devoted love. Oh! that my weak pen could express a 
hthe of my fond devotion. Ferdinand, I love you with all 
^y heart, and all my soul, and all my spirit's strength. I 
nave no thought but for you, I exist only on your idea. 
Write, write ; tell me that you love me, tell me that you 
*re unchanged. It is so long since I heard that voice, so 
^^^g since I beheld that fond, soft eye ! Pity me, my Fer- 
^"^*iid. This is captivity. A thousand, thousand loves. 

Your devoted Henrietta. 

Letter XI. 

•^^KDiKAin), dearest Ferdinand, the post to-day has brought 
^ ^0 letter. I cannot credit my senses. I think the post- 
^"^ter must liave thought me mad. No letter ! I could 


not believe liis denial. I was annoyed, too, at tlie expr^ 
sion of liis countenance. This mode of correspondence ^> 
Ferdinand, I wish not to mnrmnr, but when I consented 
this clandestine method of commnnication, it was for a f& 

days, a few, few days, and then ^Bnt I cannot write. I 

am quite overwhelmed. Oh ! will to-morrow ever come ? 


Letter Xn. 

Dearest Ferdinand, I wish to be calm. Tour letter occa- 
sions me very serious uneasiness. I quarrel not with its 
tone of affection. It is fond, very fond, and there were 
moments when I could have melted over such expressions; 
but, Ferdinand, it is not candid. Why are we separated ? 
For a purpose. Is that purpose effected ? Were I to judge 
only fix)m your letters, I should even suppose that you had 
not spoken to your father ; but that is, of course, impossible. 
Tour father disapproves of our union. I feel it ; I know 
it ; I was even prepared for it. Come, then, and speak to 
my father. It is due to me not to leave him any more in 
the dark ; it will be better, believe me, for yourself^ that 
he should share our confidence. Papa is not a rich maH} 
but he loves his daughter. Let us make him our fiiend. 
Ah ! why did I ever conceal anything from one so kind and. 
good ? In this moment of desolation, I feel, I keenly feeU 
my folly, my wickedness. I have no one to speak to, no 
one to console me. This constant struggle to conceal wy 
feelings will kill me. It was painful when aU was joy* 
but now, O Ferdinand ! I can endure this life no longer. 
My brain is weak, my spirit perplexed and broken. I will 
not say if you love ; but, Ferdinand, if you pity me, writCi 
and write definitely, to your unhappy HesrietiA. 


Letter XViiL 

tl tell me that, in compliance with my wishes, you will 
ite definitely. You tell me that circumstances have 
narred, since your arrival at Bath, of a very perplexing 
i annoying nature, and that they retard that settlement 
i your father that you had projected and partly ar- 
iged ; that it is impossible to enter into detail in letters ; 
i assuring me of your lovg, you add that you have been 
cions to preserve me from sharing your anxiety. O 
rdinand ! what anxiety can you withhold like- that you 
^e occasioned me ? Dearest, dearest Ferdinand, I will, I 
£t still believe that you are faultless ; but, believe me, a 
nt of candour in our situation, and, I believe, in every 
lation, is a want Of common sense. Never conceal any- 
ng from your Henrietta. 

[ now take it for granted that your father has forbidden 
? union ; indeed this is the only conclusion that I can 
wr from your letter. Ferdinand, I can bear this, even 
8. Sustained by your affection, I will trust to time, to 
ants, to the kindness of my friends, and to that over- 
ling Providence, which will not desert affections so pure 
curs, to bring about sooner or later some happier result, 
^dent in your love, I can live in solitude, and devote 
rself to your memory, I 

Ferdinand ! kneel to your father, kneel to your kind 
>iher ; tell them all, tell them how I love you, how I will 
ire them ; tell them your Henrietta will have no thought 
A for their happiness ; tell them she will be as dutiful to 
Bin as she is devoted to you. Ask not for our union, ask 
em only to permit you to cherish our acquaintance. Let 
^'^ return to Armine ; let them cultivate our friendship ; 

^em know papa ; let them know me ; let them know me 

1 am, with all my faults, I trust not worldly, not selfish, 
' qiiite insignificant, not quite unprepared to act the part 

p 2 


that awaits a member of their family, either in its spl©: 
door or its proud humility ; and, if not worthy of their bo 
(as who can be ?) yet conscious, deeply conscious of tl 
value and blessing of his affection, and prepared to prove 
by the devotion of my being. Do this, my Ferdinand, ax 
happiness will yet come. 

But, my gentle love, on whatever course you may decid< 
remember your Henrietta. I do not reproach you ; neve 
will I reproach you ; but rem^piber the situation in whid 
you have placed me. All my happy life I have nevei 
had a secret from my father ; and now I am involved in i 
private engagement and a clandestine correspondence. B 
just to him ; be just to your Henrietta ! Betum, 
beseech you on my knees; return instantly to Bacie 
reveal everything. He will be kind and gracious ; he wil 
be our best friend ; in his hand and bosom we shall isa 
solace and support. God bless you, Ferdinand ! All will jc 
go well, mine own, own love. I smile amid my tears wbe 
I think that we shall so soon meet. Oh! what miser 
can there be in this world if we may bat share it together 

Thy fond, thy fidthful, thy devoted Hkxbietza. 


OHrrACnSG the ASIKVjlL at rcCIK of a DISmGOSHED QlUtS 

Ir was aKxit thrw weeks aflcr Ferdinand Armine ha 
qii-twd Dccie tha: Mr. Temple entered the break&st-roa 
one snortdaiT, wiih a^ open fsote in his hand, and told He: 
^^a^ to pcYpar^ for vEsitors. as her dd friend, LadyBelU 
h*d wTt:;:e:i. to apprise Lin of ber iii:ention to rest ti 
li^t a5 IV:ic:e. or bcr way ro iLe XcsrJ:. 

• Sfce brt:ijc? wi::ii !>»» also ^e ric« cba-min? woman 
Ae wvrtl^ ;i^ded Mr. Te^ir... wuh a snile. 


* I have little doubt Lady Bellair deems her companion 
80 at present,' said Miss Temple, * whoever she may be ; 
bat, at any rate, I shall be glad to see her ladyship, who is 
certainly one of the most amusing women in the world.* 

Tliis announcement of the speedy arrival of Lady Bellair 
made some bustle in the household of Ducie Bower ; for 
W ladyship was in every respect a memorable character, 
and the butler who had remembered her visits to Mr. 
Temple before his residence at Ducie, very much interested 
the cnriosity of Ids fellow-servants by his intimations of her 
ladyship's eccentricities. 

*You will have to take care of the parrot, Mary,' said 
the butler ; * and you, Susan, must look after the page. 
We shall all be well cross-examined as to the state of the 
establishment ; and so I advise you to be prepared. Her 
Myship is a rum one, and that's the truth.* 

In due course of time, a handsome travelling chariot, 
emblazoned with a viscount's coronet, and carrying on 
the seat behind a portly man-servant and a lady's maid, 
*nived at Ducie. They immediately descended, and as- 
®8ted the assembled household of the Bower to disembark 
*^e contents of the chariot ; but Mr. Temple and his 
^nghter were too well acquainted with Lady Bellair' s 
*^***racter to appear at this critical moment. First came 
forth a stately dame, of ample proportions and exceed- 
ingly magnificent attire, being dressed in the extreme 
of gorgeous fashion, and who, after being landed on the 
^^ble steps, was for some moments absorbed in the flut- 
•®^ arrangement of her plumage ; smoothing her maroon 
Pelisse, shaking the golden riband of her emerald bonnet, 
*nd adjusting the glittering pelerine of point device, that 
™ded the fall of her broad but well- formed shoulders. In 
one hand the stately dame lightly swung a bag that was 
Worthy of holding the Great Seal itself, so rich and so 
®l«X)rate were its materials and embroidery; and in the 


other she at length took a glass, which was suspended from 
her neck by a chain-cable of gold, and glanced with a flash- 
ing eye, as dark as her ebon cnrls and as brilliant as her 
well-ronged cheek, at the surrounding scene. 

The green parrot, in its sparkling cage, followed next, 
and then came forth the prettiest, liveliest, smallest, best- 
dressed, and, stranger than all, oldest little lady in the 
world. Lady Bellair was of child-like stature, and quite 
erect, though ninety years of age ; the tasteful simpHdiy 
of her costume, her little plain white silk bonnet, her grey 
silk dress, her apron, her grey mittens, and her Cinderella 
shoes, all admirably contrasted with the vast and flanntmg 
splendour of her companion, not less than her ladyship's 
small yet exquisitely proportioned form, her highly-finished 
extremities, and her keen sarcastic grey eye. The expres- 
sion of her countenance now, however, was somewhat 
serious. An arrival was an important moment that re- 
quired all her practised circumspection ; there was so much 
to arrange, so much to remember, and so much to observe. 

The portly serving-man had advanced, and, taking his 
little mistress in his arms, as he would a child, had planted 
her on the steps. And then her ladyship's dear, shiiU, 
and now rather fn?tful voice was heard. 

* Here ! wher>?'s the butler ? I don't want you, stapid 
(addressing her own servant), but the butler of the house, 
Misters butler; what is his name, Mr. Twoshoes' butler? 
I cannot remember names. Oh! you are there, are yofl? 
I dc»n't want you. How is your master ? How is your 
charming lady r Where is the parrot ? I don't want ii 
AVhen>*s the lady r Why don't you answer ? Why do 
YOU staiv sio : Miss Temple ! no ! not Miss Temple ! The 
lady* my lady* my charming friend, Mrs. Floyd ! To he 
sure a> ; why did not you say so before r But she has got 
two names. Why dcmH you say K>th names ? My dear/ 
c^ouBiuiiued Lady Bollair, addn?tssing her travelling com- 


panion, *I don't know your name. Tell all these good 
people your name ; your two names ! I like people with 
two names. Tell them, my dear, tell them ; tell them your 
name, Mrs. Thingabob, or whatever it is, Mrs. Thingabob 

Mrs. Montgomery Moyd, though rather annoyed by this 
appeal, still contrived to comply with the request in the 
most dignified manner ; and all the servants bowed to Mrs. 
Montgomery Moyd. 

To the great satisfaction of this stately dame, Lady BeUair, 
after scanning everything and everybody with the utmost 
scratiny, indicated some intention of entering, when sud- 
denly she turned round : 

' Man, there's something wanting. I had three things to 
take charge of. The parrot and my charming Mend ; that 
is only two. There is a third. What is it ? You don't 
know ! Here, you man, who are you ? Mr. Temple's 
servant. I knew your master when he was not as high as 
that cage. What do you think of that ? ' continued her 
ladyship, with a triumphant smile. * What do you laugh 
at, sir? Did you ever see a woman ninety years old 
before ? That I would wager you have not. What do I 
want ? I want something. Why do you tease me by not 
remembering what I want? Now, I knew a gentleman 
who made his fortune by once remembering what a very 
great man wanted. But then the great man was a minister 
of state. I dare say if I were a minister of state, instead of 
an old woman ninety years of age, you would contrive some- 
how or other to find out what I wanted. JSTever mind, never 
mind. Come, my charming friend, let me take your arm. 
Now I will introduce you to the prettiest, the dearest, the 
most innocent and charming lady in the world. She is my 
greatest favourite. She is always my favourite. You are 
my favourite, too ; but you are only my favourite for the 
moment. I always have two favourites: one for the 


moment, and one that I never change, and that is my sweet 
Henrietta Temple. You see I can remember her name, 
though I couldn't yours. But you are a good creature, a 
dear good soul, though you live in a bad set, my dear, a 
very bad set indeed ; vulgar people, my dear ; they may be 
rich, but they have no ton. This is a fine place. Stop, 
stop,' Lady Bellair exclaimed, stamping her little foot and 
shaking her little arm, * Don't drive away; I remember 
what it was. Gregory ! run, Gregory ! It is the page ! 
There was no room for him behind^ and I told him to lie 
under the seat. Poor dear boy ! He must be smothered. 
I hope he is not dead. Oh ! there he is. Has Miss Temple 
got a page? Does her page wear a feather? My page 
has not got a feather, but he shall have one, because he 
was not smothered. Here ! woman, who are you ? The 
housemaid. I thought so. I always know a housemaid. 
You shall take care of my page. Take him at once, and 
give him some milk and water ; and, page, be very good, 
and never leave this good young woman, unless I send for 
you. And, woman, good young woman, perhaps you may 
find an old feather of Miss Temple's page. Give it to this 
good little boy, because he was not smothered.* 




The Viscountess Dowager Bellair was the last remaining 
link between the two centuries. Herself born of a noble 
family, and distinguished both for her beauty and her wit, 
she had reigned for a quarter of a century the favourite 
subject of Sir Joshua ; had flirted with Lord Carlisle, and 
chatted with Dr. Johnson. But the most remarkable 


J of her ladyship's destiny was her preservation, 
that hod rolled on nearly a century since her birth, 
)ared alike her physical and mental powers. She was 
b as active in body, and quite as lively in mind, as 

seventy years before she skipped in Marylebone 
ns, or puzzled the gentlemen of the Tuesday Night 
at Mrs. Comely's masquerades. Those wonderful 
iy years indeed had passed to Lady Bellair like one 
3se very masked balls in which she had formerly 
ed ; she had lived in a perpetual crowd of strange 
►rilliant characters. All that had been famous for 
r, rank, fashion, wit, genius, had been gathered round 
irone ; and at this very hour a fresh and admiring 
ition, distinguished for these qualities, cheerfully 
wrledged her supremacy, and paid to her their homage, 
sroes and heroines of her youth, her middle life, even 

old age, had vanished ; brilliant orators, profound 
nen, inspired bards, ripe scholars, illustrious warriors; 
es whose dazzling charms had turned the world mad ; 
spirits, whose flying words or whose fanciful manners 
every saloon smile or wonder, all had disappeared, 
lad witnessed revolutions in every country in the 
; she remembered Brighton a fishing-town, and 
Lester a village ; she had shared the pomp of nabobs 
e profusion of loan-mongers ; she had stimulated tlie 
imbition of Charles Fox, and had sympathised with 
3t aspirations of George Canning ; she had been the 
int of the loves alike of Byron and Alfieri ; had worn 
ing for General Wolfe, and given a festival to the 
of Wellington ; had laughed with George Selwyn, 
liled at Lord Alvanley ; had known the first macaroni 
e last dandy ; remembered the Gunnings, and intro- 
the Sheiidans ! But she herself was unchanged ; 
jstless for novelty, still eager for amusement; stiU 
sly watching the entrance on the stage of some new 


stream of characters, and indefatigable in attracting the 

notice of everyone whose talents might contribute to her 

entertainment, or whose attention might gratify her vanity. 

And, really, when one recollected Lady Bellair's long 

career, and witnessed at the same time her diminutive form 

and her unrivalled vitality, he might almost be tempted to 

believe, that if not absolutely immortal, it was at least her 

strange destiny not so much vulgarly to die, as to grow 

like the heroine of the fairy tale, each year smaller and 


* Fine by flegrees, and beautifully less/ 

until her ladyship might at length subside into airy nothing- 
ness, and so rather vanish than expire. 

It was the fashion to say that her ladyship had no heart; 
in most instances an unmeaning phrase ; in her case cer- 
tainly an unjust one. Ninety years of experience had 
assuredly not been thrown away on a mind of remarkable 
acuteness ; but Lady Bellair's feelings were still quick and 
warm, and could be even profound. Her fancy was so 
Hvely, that her attention was soon engaged ; her taste so 
refined, that her affection was not so easily obtained. 
Hence she acquired a character for caprice, because she 
repented at leisure those first impressions whicb with her 
were irresistible ; for, in truth. Lady Bellair, though she 
had nearly completed her century, and had passed her 
whole life in the most artificial circles, was the very 
creature of impulse. Her first homage she always declared 
was paid to talent, her second to beauty, her third to blood 
The favoured individual who might combine these three 
splendid qualifications, was, with Lady Bellair, a nymph or 
a demi-god. As for mere wealth, she really despised it, 
though she liked her favourites to be rich. 

Her knowledge of human nature, which was consider- 
able, her acquaintance with human weaknesses, which was 
unrivalled, were not thrown away upon Lady Bellair. Hex 


ladyship's perception of character was fine and qtiick, and 
nothing dehghted her so ninch*as making a person a tool. 
Capable, where her heart was touched, of the finest sym- 
pathy and the most generous actions, where her feelings 
were not engaged she experienced no compunction in turn- 
ing her companions to account, or, indeed, sometimes in 
honouring them with her intimacy for that purpose. But 
if you had the skiU to detect her plots, and the courage to 
make her aware of your consciousness of them, you never 
displeased her, and often gaiued her friendship. For Lady 
Bellair had a fine taste for humour, and when she chose to 
be candid, an indulgence which was not rare with her, she 
could dissect her own character and conduct with equal 
spirit and impartiality. In her own instance it cannot be 
denied that she comprised the three great qualifications 
she so much prized : for she was very witty ; had blood in 
her veins, to use her own expression ; and was the prettiest 
woman in the world, for her years. For the rest, though 
no person was more highly bred, she could be very imper- 
tinent ; but if you treated her with servility, she absolutely 
loathed you. 

Lady Bellair, after the London season, always spent two 
or three months at Bath, and then proceeded to her great 
grandson's, the present viscount's, seat in the North, where 
she remained u^itil London was again attractive. Part of 
her domestic diplomacy was employed each year, during 
her Bath visit, in discovering some old friend, or making 
some new acquaintance, who would bear her in safety, and 
save her harmless from all expenses and dangers of the 
road, to Northumberland ; and she displayed often in these 
arrangements talents which Talleyrand might have envied. 
During the present season, Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, the 
widow of a rich East Indian, whose intention it was to 
proceed to her estate in Scotland at the end of the autumn, 
had been presented to Lady Bellair by a friend well 


ncqnainted witli her ladyship's desired arrangements. 
What an invaluable acquaintance at such a moment for 
Lady Bellair ! Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, very rich and 
very anxious to be fashionable, was intoxicated with the 
flattering condescension and anticipated companionship of 
Lady Bellair. At first Lady Bellair had quietly suggested 
that they should travel together to Northumberland. Mrs. 
Montgomery Floyd was enchanted with the proposal. Then 
Lady Bellair regretted that her servant was very HI, and 
that she must send her to town immediately in her own 
carriage; and then Mrs. Montgomery Floyd insisted, in 
spite of the offers of Lady Bellair, that her ladyship should 
take a seat in her carriage, and would not for an instant 
hear of Lady Bellair defraying, under such circumstances, 
any portion of the expense. Lady Bellair held out to the 
dazzled vision of Mrs. Montgomery Floyd a brilliant per- 
spective of the noble lords and wealthy squires whose 
splendid seats, under the auspices of Lady Bellair, they 
were to make their resting-places during their progress ; 
and in time Lady Bellair, who had a particular fancy for 
her own carriage, proposed that her servants should travel 
in that of Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. Mrs. Montgomery 
Floyd smiled a too willing assent. It ended by Mrs. 
Montgomery Floyd's servants travelling to Lord Bellair's, 
where their mistress was to meet them, in that lady's own 
carriage, and Lady Bellair travelling in her own chariot 
with her own servants, and Mrs. Montgomery Floyd de- 
fraying the expenditure of both expeditions. 

A LdVE STORY. 221 




Lady Bellaib really loved Henrietta Temple. She was 
her prime and her permanent £a.vonrite, and she was always 
lamenting that Henrietta would not come and stay with 
her in London, and marry a dnke. Lady Bellair was a 
great matchmaker. When, therefore, she was welcomed 
by the fair mistress of Dncie Bower, Lady Bellair was a» 
gonnine as she was profuse in her kind phrases. 'My 
sweet, sweet young friend,' she said, as Henrietta bowed 
her head and offered her lips to the little old lady, ' it is 
something to have such a friend as you. What old woman 
has such a sweet friend as I have ! Now let me look at 
you. It does my heart good to see you. I feel younger. 
You are handsomer than ever, I declare you are. Why 
will you not come and stay with me, and let me find you a 
husband ? There is the Dake of Derandale, he is in love 
with you already ; for I do nothing but talk of you. No, 
you should not marry him, he is not good enough. He is, 
not good enough. He is not refined. I love a duke, but I 
love a duke that is refined more. You shall marry Lord 
Fitzwarrene. He is my favourite ; he is worthy of you. 
You laugh ; I love to see you laugh. You are so fresh and 
innocent ! There is your worthy father talking to my 
friend Mrs. Twoshoes ; a very good creature, my love, a 
very worthy soul, but no ton ; I hate French words, but 
what other can I use ; and she will wear gold chains which 
I detest. You never wear gold chains I am sure. The 
Buke of would not have me, so I came to you,' con- 
tinued her ladyship, returning the salutation of Mr. Templev 
* Don't ask me if I am tired ; I am never tired. There is 


nothing I hate so much as being asked whether I am well ; 
I am always well. There, I have brought you a charming 
friend ; give her your arm ; and you shall give me yours,* 
said the old lady, smiling, to Henrietta ; ' We make a good 
contrast ; I like a good contrast, but not an ugly one. I 
cannot bear anything that is ugly ; unless it is a very ugly 
man indeed, who is a genius and very fashionable. I liked 
Wilkes, and I liked Curran ; but they were famous, the 
best company in the world. When I was as young as you, 
Lady Lavington and I always hunted in couples, because 
she was tall, and I was called the Queen of the Fairies. 
Pretty women, my sweet child, should never be aJone. 
Not that I was very pretty, but I was always with pretty 
women, and at last the men began to think that I was 
pretty too.* 

* A superbly pretty place,* simpered the magnificent Mrs. 
Montgomery Floyd to Mr. Temple, * and of all the sweetly 
pretty persons I ever met, I assure you I think Miss Temple 
the most charming. Such a &vourite too with Lady Bel- 
lair ! You know she calls Miss Temple her real favourite,* 
added the lady, with a playful smile. 

The ladies were ushered to their apartments by Henrietta, 
, for the hour of dinner was at hand, and Mrs. Montgomery 
Floyd indicated some anxiety not to be hurried in her 
toilet. Indeed, when she reappeared, it might have been 
matter of marvel how she could have effected such a com- 
plete transformation in so short a period. Except a train, 
she "^as splendid enough for a birthday at St. James', and 
wore so many brilliants that she glittered like a chandelier. 
However, as Lady Bellair loved a contrast, this was perhaps 
not unfortunate ; for certainly her ladyship, in her simple 
costume which had only been altered by the substitution of 
a cap that should have been immortalised by Mieris or 
Gerard Douw, afforded one not a little startling to her 
sumptuous fellow-traveller. 


•Your dinner ia very gootl,* wvid Lady BoUair to Mr. 
Temple, * I eat very little and very plmnly, but I hai<v a 
bad dinner 5 it dissatisfies everybody else, and they are all 
dull. The best dinners now an) a new nnui*s ; I forgi^t his 
name ; the man who is so vi>ry rieh. You neN^er heanl of 
him, and she (pointing with her fork to Mrs. Montgomery) 
knows nobody. What is his name P Qrt^gory, what is the 
name of the gentleman 1 dine wiUi so often ? the gentleman 
I send to when I have no other engagement, and he always 
gives me a dinner, but who neN'or dines with me. lie is 
only rich, and 1 hate people who are only rieh ; but I must 
ask him next year. I ask him to my evening parties, 
mind ; I don't care about them ; but I will not have stupid 
people, who are only rich, at my dinners. Gregory, what 
is his name F ' 

' Mr. Million de StookviUe, my lady.* 

* Yes, that is tlie num, good Gregory. You have no deer, 
have you V ' eiuiuireil her ladyship of Mr. Temple. * I 
thought not. I wisli you had deer. You should send a 
haimch in my name to Mr. Million de StookviUe, and that 
wi>ald be as good as a diimer to him. If your neighbour, 
the duke, had received me, I sliould have sent it from 
thenoe. I will teU you what I will do ; I will write a note 
from this plaee to the duke, and get liim to do it for nu\ 
He iriU do anything for me. He loves me, the duke, mid 
I love him ; but his wife hates me.* 

*And you have had a gay season in town this yeivr. 
Lady BellairP' enquired Mit?s Temple. 
*My dear, I always have a gay. st^ason,* 

* What happiness ! * softly exolainuHl Mrs. Montginnery 
Floyd. * I think nothing is more delightful than gaiety/ 

* And how is our friend Mr. l^onmot this yeivr ? * sivid 
Mr. Temple. 

^ My dear, Bonmot is growing very old. He tells the 
same storieB over again, and therefore I never see him. I 


cannot bear wits that have run to seed : I cannot ask 
Bomnot to my dinners, and I told him the reason why ; 
but I said I was at home every morning from two till six, 
and that he might come then, for he does not go out 
to evening parties, and he is huffy, and so we have 

* Poor Mr. Bonmot,' said Miss Temple. 

* My dear, there is the most wonderful man in the world, 
I forget his name, but everybody is mad to have him. 
He is quite the fashion. I have him to my parties instead 
of Bonmot, and it is much better. Everybody has Bon- 
mot; but my man is new, and I love something new. 
Lady Frederick Berrington brought him to me. Do you 
know Lady Frederick Berrington ? Oh ! I forgot, poor 
dear, you are buried alive in the country ; I must intro- 
duce you to Lady Frederick. She is charming, she will 
taste you, she will bo your friend ; and you cannot have 
a better friend, my dear, for she is very pretty, very wittj, 
and has got blood in her veins. I won't introduce you to 
Lady Frederick,' continued Lady Bellair to Mrs. Mont- 
gomery Floyd ; * she is not in your way. I shall introduce 
you to Lady Splash and Dashaway ; she is to be your 

Mrs. Montgomery Floyd seemed consoled by the splendid 
future of being the friend of Lady Splash and Dashaway, 
and easily to endure, with such a compensation, the some- 
what annoying remarks of her noble patroness. 

* But as for Bonmot,' continued Lady Bellair, * I will 
have nothing to do with him. General Faneville, he ifl » 
dear good man, and gives mo dinners. I love dinners : I 
never dine at home, except when I have company. General 
Faneville not only gives me dinners, but lets me always 
choose my own party. And he said to me the other day, 
" Now, Lady Bellair, fix your day, and name your pariy." 
I said directly, " General, anybody but Bonmot." You 
know Bonmot is his particular friend.' 


*But surely that is cruel,' said Henrietta Temple, 

* I am cruel,' said Lady Bellair, * when I hate a person I 

am very cruel, and I hate Bonmot. Mr. Fox wrote me a 

copy of verses once, and called me " cruel fair ; " but I was 

not cruel to him, for I dearly loved Charles Fox ; and I 

love you, and I love your father. The first party your 

father ever was at, was at my house. There, what do you 

think of that ? And I love my grandchildren ; I call them 

all m.y grandchildren. I think great-grandchildren sound* 

silly ; I am so happy that they have married so well. My 

dear Selina is a countess ; you shall be a countess, too,' 

added Lady Bellair, laughing. ' I must see you a countess 

before I die. Mrs. Grenville is not a countess, and is 

rather poor ; but they will be rich some day ; and Gren- 

?ille is a good name : it sounds well. That is a great 

thing. I hate a name that does not sound well.' 



^ the evening Henrietta amused her guests with music. 

™8. Montgomery Floyd was enthusiastically fond of music, 

*nd veiy proud of her intimate fiiendship with Pasta. 
* Oh ! you know her, do you ? ' said Lady Bellair. 

Very well ; you shall bring her to my house. She shall 
^8r at all my parties ; I love music at my evenings, but I 
^ever pay for it, never. K she will not come in the evening, 
"*■ "'^ill try to ask her to dinner, once at least. I do not like 
^^^ers and tumblers at dinner, but she is very fashion- 
^*©> and young men like her; and what I want at my 
?*^ers are young men, young men of very great fashion, 
^ther want young men at my dinners. I have some ; 


Lord Langtdd always comes to me, and he is very fine, yon 
know, very fine indeed. He goes to very few places, but 
lie always comes to me.' 

Mrs. Montgomery Moyd quitted the piano, and seated 
herself by Mr. Temple. Mr. Temple was gallant, and Mrs. 
Montgomery Moyd anxious to obtain the notice of a gentle- 
man whom Lady Bellair had assured her was of the first 
ton. Her ladyship herself beckoned Henrietta Temple to 
join her on the sofa, and, taking her hand very affection- 
ately, explained to her all the tactics by which she intended 
to bring about a match between her and Lord Fitzwarrene, 
very much regretting, at the same time, that her dear 
grandson. Lord Bellair, was married ; for he, after all, was 
the only person worthy of her. * He would taste you, my 
dear ; he would understand yon. Dear Bellair ! he is so 
very handsome, and so very witty. Why did he go and 
marry ? And yet I love his wife. Do you know her ? 
Oh ! she is charming : so very pretty, so very witiy, and 
such good blood in her veins. I made the match. Why 
were you not in England ? If you had only come to En- 
gland a year sooner, you should have married Bellair. How 
provoking ! * 

* But, really, dear Lady Bellair, your grandson is veiy 
happy. What more can you wish ? ' 

* Well, my dear, it shall be Lord Ktzwarrene, then. I 
shall give a series of parties this year, and ask Lord Fitz- 
warrene to every one. Not that it is very easy to get 
him, my child. There is nobody so difl&cnlt as Lord Ete- 
warrene. That is quite right. Men should always be 
difl&cult. I cannot bear men who come and dine with ywi 
when you want them.' 

* What a charming place is Ducie ! ' sighed Mrs. Mont- 
gomery Moyd to Mr. Temple. * The country is so delightfoL* 

* But you would not like to live in the country only,' 
said Mr. Temple. 


* Ah ! yon do not know me ! * sighed the sentimental 
Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. * If yon only knew how I love 
flowers! I wish yon could but see my conservatory in 
Park-lane ! ' 

* And how did yon find Bath this year, Lady Bellair ? ' 
enquired Miss Temple. 

* Oh ! my dear, I met a charming man there. I forget 
hiB name, but the most distingmshfd person I ever met ; 
so very handsome, so very witiy, and with blood in his 
veins, only I forget his name, and it is a very good name, 
too. My dear,' addressing herself to Mrs. Montgomery 
Moyd, * tell me the name of my favourite.* ^ 

Mrs. Montgomery Floyd looked a little puzzled. * My 
great favourite ! ' exclaimed the irritated Lady Bellair, 
rapping her fan against the sofa. * Oh ! why do you not 
remember names ! I love people who remember names. My 
&voarite, my Bath favourite. What is his name ? He is 
to dine with me in town. What is the name of my Bath 
&vourite who is certainly to dine with me in town ? ' 

* Do you mean Captain Armine ? ' enquired Mrs. Mont- 
gomery Floyd. Miss Temple turned pale. *That is the 
man,' said Lady Bellair. ' Oh ! such a charming man. 
You shall marry him, my dear ; yon shall not marry Lord 

*Bnt yon forget he is going to be married,' said Mrs. 
Montgomery Floyd. 

Miss Temple tried to rise, but she could not. She held 
down hep head. She felt the fever in her cheek. * Is our 
engagement, then, so notorious ? ' she thought to herself. 
*Ah! yes, I forgot he was going to be married,' said 

Lady Bellair. * Well, then, it must be Lord Fitzwarrene. 

Besides, Captain Armine is not rich, but he has got a very 

fine place though, and I will go and stop there some day. 

•And, besides, he is over head-and-ears in debt, so they say. 

However, he is going to marry a very rich woman, and so 

^ o 


all will be right. I like old families in decay, to get round 

Henrietta dreaded that her &ther shonld observe her 
confhsion ; she had recourse to every art to prevent it. 
* Dear Ferdinand,' she thought to herself, * thy very rich 
wife will bring thee, I fear, but a poor dower. Ah ! would 
he were here ! ' 

* Whom is Captain Armine going to marry ? ' enquired 
Mr. Temple. 

* Oh ! a very proper person,' said Lady Bellair. * I for- 
get her name. Miss Twoshoes, or something. What is 
her name, my dear ? ' 

*You mean Miss Grandison, madam?' responded Mrs. 
Montgomery Floyd. 

To be sure, Miss Grandison, the great heiress. The 
only one left of the Grandisons. I knew her grand&ther. 
He was my son's schoolfellow.' 

' Captain Armine is a near neighbour of ours,' said Hr. 

' Oh ! you know him,' said Lady Bellair. ' Is not he 
charming ? ' 

* Are you certain he is going to be married to Miss Gran- 
dison ? ' enquii^ed Mr. Temple. 

* Oh ! there is no doubt in the world,' said Mrs. Mont- 
gomery Floyd. * Everything is quite settled. My most 
particular friend. Lady Julia Harteville, is to be one of 
the bridesmaids. I have seen aU the presents. Both the 
families are at Bath at this very moment. I saw the happf 
pair together every day. They are related, you know. It 
is an excellent match, for the Armines have great estates, 
mortgaged to the very last acre. I have heard that Six 
Batclifie Armine has not a thousand a year he can call bis 
own. We are all so pleased,* added Mrs. Montgomery 
Floyd, as if she were quite one of the &mfly. * Is it ixot 


* They are to be married next montli,* said Lady Bellair. 
' I did not quite make the match, but I did something. I 
love the Grandisons, because Lord Grandison was my son's 
friend fifty years ago.' 

* I never knew a person so pleased as Lady Armine is,' 
continued Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. * The truth is. Cap- 
tain Armine has been wild, very wild indeed ; a Httle 
of a roue ; hut then such a fine young man, so very hand- 
some, so truly distinguished, as Lady Bellair says, what 
could you expect ? But he has sown his wild oats now. 
They have been engaged these six months ; ever since he 
came &om abroad. He has been at Bath all the time, 
except for a fortnight or so, when he went to his Place to 
make the necessary preparations. We all so missed him. 
Captain Armine was quite the life of Bath. I am almost 
ashamed to repeat what was said of him,' added Mrs. 
Montgomery Floyd, blushing through her rouge ; * but 
they said every woman was in love with him.' 

* Fortunate man ! ' said Mr. Temple, bowing, but with a 
grave expression. 

* And he says, he is only going to marry, because he is 
wearied of conquests,' continued Mrs. Montgomery Floyd ; 
* how impertinent, is it not ? But Captain Ajrmine says 
each things ! He is quite a privileged person at Bath ! ' 

Miss Temple rose and left the room. When the hour of 
geaeral retirement had arrived, she had not returned. Her 
maid brought a message that her mistress was not very 
well, and ofiered her excuses for not again descending. 





Henrietta, when sbe qnitted the room, never stopped until 
she had gained her own chamber. She had no light, but 
a straggling moonbeam revealed sufficient. She threw 
herself npon her bed, choked with emotkm. She was in- 
capable of thought ; a chaos of wild images flitted over her 
brain. Thus had she remained, jierchance an hour, ^vrith 
scarcely self-consciousness, when her servant entered inth 
a light to arrange her chamber, and nearly shrieked vdifiD} 
on turning round, she beheld her mistress. 

This intrusion impressed upon Miss Temple the absolotd 
necessity of some exertion, if only to preserve herself at 
this moment from renewed interruptions. She remembered 
where she was, she called back with an effort some recol- 
lection of her guests, and she sent that message to hsi 
father which we have already noticed. Then she was 
^ain alone. How she wished at that moment that she 
might ever be alone ; that the form and shape of hnman 
being should no more cross her vision; that shendglit 
remain in this dark chamber until she died ! There ^iras 
no more joy for her ; her sun was set, the lustre of hor Hfo 
was gone; the lute had lost its tone, the flower itB 
perfume, the bird its aiiy wing. What a fleet, as well as 
fatal, tragedy! How swift upon her improvidence bad 
come her heart-breaking pang! There was an end of 
&ith, for he was faithless ; there was an end of love, for 
love had betrayed her ; there was an end of beauiy, for 
beauty had been her bane. All that hitherto made Hfe 
delightful, an the fine emotions, all the bright hopes, and 
the rare accomplishments of our nature, w^re dark defaisionfl 


DOW, cruel mockeries, and false and cheating phantoms ! 
What humiliation! what despair! And he had seemed 
3o true, so pure, so fond, so gifted ! What I could it be, 
30xild it be that a few short weeks back this man had knelt 
bo her, had adored her? And she had hung upon his 
accents, and lived in the light of his enraptured eyes, and 
pledged to him her heart, dedicated to him her life, devoted 
bo him aU her innocent and passionate affections, worshipped 
him as an idol ! WTiy, what was life that it could bring 
upon its swift wing such dark, such agonising vicissitudes 
as these ! It was not life ; it was frenzy ! 

Some one knocked gently at her door* She did not 
answer, she feigned sleep. Yet the door opened, she felt, 
though her eyes were shut and her back turned, that there 
was a light in the room. A tender step approached her 
bed. It could be but one person, that person whom she 
bad herself deceived. She knew it was her father. 

Mr. Temple seated himself by her bedside ; he bent his 
head and pressed his lips upon her forehead. In her deso- 
lation some one still^ loved her. She' could not resist the 
impulse ; she held forth her hand without opening her eyes, 
her fibiher held it clasped in his. 

* Henrietta,' he at length said, in a tone of peculiar 

* Oh ! do not speak, my father. Do not speak. You alone 
haye cause to reproach me. Spare me ; spare your child.' 
. * I came to console, not to reproach,' said Mr. Temple. 
'But if it please you, I will not speak ; let me, however, 

* Father, we must ppeak. It relieves me even to confess 
my indiscretion, my iatal folly. Father, I feel, yet why, I 
know not, I feel that you know all ! * 

* I know much, my Henrietta, but I do not know all.' 

* And if you knew all, you would not hate me ? ' 

• * Hate you, my Henrietta ! These are strange words to 


nse to a father ; to a father, I would add, like me. No one 
can love yon, Henrietta, as your father loves you ; yet speak 
to me not merely as a father ; speak to me as your earliest, 
your best, your fondest, your most faithful friend.' 
She pressed his hand, but answer, that she could not. 

* Henrietta, dearest, dearest Henrietta, answer me one 

* I i^remble, sir.* 

* Then we will speak to-morrow.' 

* Oh ! no, to-night. To-morrow may never come. There 
is no night for me ; I cannot sleep. I should go mad if it 
were not for you. I will speak ; I will answer any ques- 
tions. My conscience is quite clear except' to you ; no one, 
no power on earth or heaven, can reproach me, except my 

* He never will. But, dearest, tell me ; summon up your 
courage to meet my question. Are you engaged to this 
person ? ' 

* I was.' 

* Positively engaged ? ' 

* Long ere this I had supposed we should have claimed 
your sanction. He left me only to speak to his father.' 

* This may be the idle tattle of women ? ' 

* No, no,* said Henrietta, in a voice of deep melancholy; 
* my fears had foreseen this dark reality. This week has 
been a week of terror to me ; and yet I hoped, and hoped, 
and hoped. Oh ! what a fool have I been.' 

* I know this person was your constant companion in my 
absence ; that you have corresponded with him. Has he 
written very recently ? ' 

* Within two days.' 

* And his letters ? ' 

* Have been of late most vague. Oh ! my father, indeed, 
indeed I have not conducted myself so ill as you perhaps 
imagine. I shrunk from this secret engagement ; I op- 


posed by every argument in my pqwer, this clandestine 
correspondence ; but it was only for a week, a single week ; 
and reasons, plausible and specious reasons, were plentiful* 
Alas ! alas ! all is explained now. All that was strange, 
mysterious, perplexed in his views and conduct, and which, 
when it crossed my mind, I dismissed with contempt, all 
is now too clear.' 

* Henrietta, he is unworthy of you.* 

* Hush ! hush ! dear father. An hour ago I loved him. 
Spare him, if you only wish to spare me.* 

* Cling to my heart, my child. A father's love has com- 
fort. Is it not so ? * 

* I feel it is ; I feel calmer since you came and we have 
spoken. I never can be happy again ; my spirit is quite 
broken. And yet, I feel I have a heart now, which I 
thought I had not before you came. Dear, dear father,* 
she said, rising and putting her arms round Mr. Temple*^ 
neck and leaning on his bosom, and speaking in a sweet 
yet veiy moumfal Toice, « henceforth your happiness shall 
be mine. I wiU not disgrace you ; you shall not see me 
grieve ; I will atone, I will endeavour to atone, for my great 
sins, for sins they were towards you.* 

* My child, the time will come, when we shall remember 
this bitterness only as a lesson. But I know the human 
heart too well to endeavour to stem your sorrow now ; I 
only came to soothe it. My blessing is upon you, my child. 
Let us talk no more. Henrietta, I will send your maid ta 
yon. Try to sleep ; try to compose yourself.' 

* These people ; to-morrow ; what shall I do ? * 

* Leave all to me. Keep your chamber until they have 
gone. You need appear no more.* 

* Oh ! that no human being might again see me ! * 

* Hush! that is not a wise wish. Be calm ; we shall yet 
be happy. To-morrow we will talk ; and so good night, my 
child ; good night, my own Henrietta. * 


Mr. Temple left the room. He bade the maid go to her 
mistress, in as calm a tone as if indeed her complaint had 
been only a headache ; and then he entered his own apart- 
ment. Over the mantel-piece was a portrait of his daughter, 
gay and smiling as the spring ; the room was adorned with 
her drawings. He drew the chair near the fire, and gazed 
for some time abstracted upon the flame, and then hid his 
weeping conntenance in his hands. He sobbed convul- 



It was a gusty autumnal night ; Glastonbury sat alone in 
his tower ; every now and then the wind, amid a choms 
of groaning branches and hissing rain, dashed against his 
window ; then its power seemed gradually lulled, and perfect 
stillness succeeded, until a low moan was heard again in the 
distance, which gradually swelled into storm. The coun- 
tenance of the good old man was not so serene as usual 
Occasionally his thoughts seemed to wander from the folio 
opened before him, and he fell into fits of reverie which 
impressed upon his visage an expression rather of anzietj 
than study. 

The old man looked up to the portrait of the unhappy 
Lady Armine, and heaved a deep sigh. 

Were his thoughts of her or of her child ? 

He closed his book, he replaced it upon its shelf^ and, 
taking from a cabinet an ancient crucifix of carved ivory, 
he bent down before the image of his Redeemer. 

Even while he was buried in his devotions, praying 
perchance for the soul of that sinning yet sainted lady, 
whose memory was never absent fix)m his thoughts, or the 


prosperity of that family to whom he had dedicated his 
faithftil life, the noise of ascending footsteps was heard in 
the sudden stillness, and immediately a loud knocking at 
the door of his outer chamber. 

Surprised at this unaccustomed interruption, Glaston- 
bury rose, and enquired the object of his yet unseen visitor ; 
but, on hearing a well-known voice, the door was instantly 
unbarred, and Ferdinand Armine, pale as a ghost and 
deluged to the skin, appeared before him. Glastonbury 
ushered his guest into his cell, replenished the fire, retrimmed 
the lamp, and placed Ferdinand in his own easy seat. 

* You are wet ; I fear thoroughly ? ' 

* It matters not,' said Captain Armine, in a hollow voice. 

* From Bath ? ' enquired Glastonbury. 

But his companion did not reply. At length he said, in 
a voice of utter wretchedness, * Glastonbury, you see before 
you the most miserable of human beings.' 

The good father started. 

*Yes!' continued Ferdinand; *this is the end of all 
your care, all your afiection, all your hopes, all your sacri- 
fices. It is over ; our house is £ftted ; my life draws to an 

' Speak, my Ferdinand,' said Glastonbury, for his pupil 
seemed to have relapsed into moody silence, ^ speak to 
your friend and father. Disburden your mind of the 
weight that presses on it. Life is never without hope, 
and, while this remains,' pointing to the crucifix, ' never 
without consolation.' 

' I cannot speak ; I know not what to say* My brain 
sinks under the effort. It is a wild, a complicated tale ; 
it relates to fiselings with which you cannot sympatbiifey 
thoughts that you cannot share. O Glastonbury! there 
is no hope ; there is no solace.' 

'Calm yourself my Ferdinand; not merely m your 
fiiend, but as a priest of our holy church, I call upon y(m 


to speak to me. Even to me, the humblest of its ministers, 
is given a power that can sustain the falling and make 
whole the broken in spirit. Speak, and speak fearlessly ; 
nor shrink from exposing the vexy inmost recesses of your 
breast ; for I can sympathise with your passions, be they 
even as wild as I believe them.* 

Ferdinand turned his eyes from the fire on which he 
was gazing, and shot a scrutinising glance at his kind 
confessor, but the countenance of Glastonbury was placid, 
though serious. * 

' You remember,* Ferdinand at length murmured, * that 
we met, we met unexpectedly, some six weeks back.* 

* I have not forgotten it,' replied Glastonbury 

' There was a lady,* Ferdinand continued in a hesitatisg 

* Whom I mistook for Miss Grandison,* observed Glas- 
tonbury, * but who, it turned out, bore another name. 

* You know it?* 

* I know all ; for her father has been here.' 

* Where are they ? * exclaimed Ferdinand eagerly, start- 
ing from his seat and seizing the hand of Glastonbury. 
* Only tell me where they are, only tell me where Henrietta 
is, and you will save me, Glastonbury. You will restore 
me to life, to hope, to heaven.* 

* I cannot,* said Glastonbury, shaking his head. * It is 
more than ten days ago that I saw this lady's father for a 
few brief and painful moments ; for what purpose your 
conscience may inform you. From the unexpected inter- 
view between ourselves in the gallery, my consequent 
misconception, and the conversation which it occasioned, 
I was not so unprepared for this interview with him as I 
otherwise might have been. Believe me, Ferdinand, I was 
as tender to your conduct as was consistent with my duty 
to my God and to my neighbour.* 

* You beti^yed me, then,' said Ferdinand. 


* Ferdinand ! ' said Glastonbury reproaclifully, * I trust 
that I am free from deceit of any kind. In the present 
instance I had not even to communicate anything. Your 
own conduct had excited suspicion ; some visitors from Bath 
to this gentleman and his family had revealed everything ; 
and, in deference to the claims of an innocent lady, I could 
not refuse to confirm what was no secret to the world in 
general, what was already known to them in particular, 
what was not even doubted, and alas ! not dubitable.' 

* Oh ! my father, pardon me, pardon me ; pardon the 
only disrespectful expression that ever escaped the lips of 
your Ferdinand towards you ; most humbly do I ask your 

forgiveness. But if you knew all God ! God ! my heart 

is breaking ! You have seen her, Glastonbury ; you have 
seen her. Was there ever on earth a being like her ? So 
beautiful, so highly-gifted, with a heart as fresh, as fra- 
grant as the dawn of Eden ; and that heart mine ; and all 
lost, all gone and lost ! Oh ! why am I alive ? ' He threw 
himself back in his chair, and covered his face and wept. 

' I would that deed or labour of mine could restore you 
both to peace,' said Glastonbury, with streaming eyes. 

* So innocent, so truly virtuous ! ' continued Ferdinand. 
* It seemed to me I never knew what virtue was till I knew 
her. So frank, so generous ! I think I see her now, with 
that dear smile of hers that never more may welcome me ! ' 

' My child, I know not what to say ; I know not what 
advice to give; I know not what even to wish. Your 
situation is so complicated, so mysterious, that it passes 
my comprehension. There are others whose claims, whose 
feelings should be considered. You are not, of course, 

Ferdinand shook his head. 

* Does Miss Grandison know all ? ' 

* Nothing.' 

* Your family ? ' 


Ferdinaoid shook his bead again. 

'What do yon yourself wish? What object are yon 
aiming at ? What game have yon yonrself been playing ? 
I speak not in harshness ; bnt I really do not understand 
what yon have been abont. If yon have yonr grandfather's 
passions, yon have his brain too. I did not ever suppose 
that yon were " infirm of purpose.*' ' 

*I have only one wish, only one object. Since I first 
saw Henrietta, my heart and resolution have never for an 
instant faltered ; and if I do not now succeed in them I 
am determined not to live.' 

* The God of all goodness have mercy on this dis- 
tracted house ! ' exclaimed Glastonbury, as he piously 
lifted his hands to heaven. 

' You went to Bath to communicate this great change to 
your father,' he continued. * Why did yon not ? Painfdl 
as the explanation must be to Miss Grandison, the injustice 
of your conduct towards her is aggravated by delay.' 

* There were reasons,* said Ferdinand, ' reasons which I 
never intended anyone to know ; but now I have no secrets. 
Dear Glastonbury, even amid all this overwhelming misery, 
my cheek burns when I confess to yon that I have, and 
have had for years, private cares of my own of no slight 

* Debts ? * enquired Glastonbury. 

' Debts,* replied Ferdinand, ' and considerable ones.' 

* Poor child ! * exclaimed Glastonbury. * And this drove 
yon to the marriage ? * 

* To that every worldly consideration impelled me : my 
heart was free then ; in fact, I did not know I had a heart ; 
and I thought the marriage would make all happy. But 
now, so far as I am myself concerned, oh ! I would sooner 
be the commonest peasant in this county, with Henrietta 
Temple for the partner of my life, than live at Armine with 
all the splendour of my ancestors.* 


' Honour be to them ; they were great men,' exclaimed 

' I am their victim,* replied Ferdinand. ' I owe my an- 
cestors nothing, nay, worse than nothing ; I owe them * 

' Hush ! hush ! ' said Glastonbury. ' If only for my 
sake, Ferdinand, be silent.' 

* For yours, then, not for theirs.' 

' But why did you remain at Bath ? * enquired Glaston- 

* I had not been there more than a day or two, when my 
principal creditor came down from town and menaced me. 
He had a power of attorney from an usurer at Malta, 
and talke'd of applying to the Horse Guai'ds. The report 
that I was going to marry an heiress had kept these 
fellows quiet, but the delay and my absence from Bath 
had excited his suspicion. Instead, therefore, of coming 
to an immediate explanation with Katherine, brought 
about as I had intended by my coldness and neglect, I was 
obliged to be constantly seen with her in pnbUc, to prevent 
myself from being arrested. Yet I wrote to Ducie daily. 
I had confidence in my energy and skill. I thought that 
Henrietta might be for a moment annoyed or suspicious ; 
I thought, however, she would be supported by the fervour 
of my love. I anticipated no other evil. Who could have 
supposed that these infernal visitors would have come at 
such a moment to this retired spot ? ' 

' And now, is all known now ? ' enquired Glastonbury. 

* Nothing,* replied Ferdinand ; * the difficulty of my 
position was so great that I was about to cut the knot, by 
quitting Bath and leaving a letter addressed to Katherine, 
confessing all. But the sudden silence of Henrietta drove 
me mad. Day after day elapsed; two, three, four, five, 
six days, and I heard nothiug. The moon was bright; 
the mail was just going off. I yielded to an irresistible 
impulse. I bid adieu to no one. I jumped in. I was in 


London only ten minutes. I dashed to Ducie. It was 
deserted. An old woman told me the family had gone, had 
utterly departed ; she knew not where, but she thought for 
foreign parts. I sank down ; I tottered to a seat in that 
hall where I had been so happy. Then it flashed across 
my mind that I might discover their course and pursue 
them. I hurried to the nearest posting town. I found 
out their route. I lost it for ever at the next stage. The 
clue was gone; it was market-day, and in a great dty, 
where horses are changed every minute, there is so much 
confusion that my enquiries were utterly baffled. And 
here I am, Mr. Glastonbury,' added Ferdinand, with a 
kind of mad smile. * I have travelled four days, I have 
not slept a wink, I have tasted no food ; but I have drank, 
1 have drank well. Here I am, and I have half a mind to 
set fire to that accursed pile called Armine Castle for my 
funeral pyre.' 

'Ferdinand, you are not well,' said Mr. Glastonbury, 
grasping his hand. * You need rest. You must retire ; 
indeed you must. I must be obeyed. My bed is yours.* 

* No ! let me go to my own room,' murmured Ferdinand, 
in a faint voice. * That room where my mother said the 
day would come, oh ! what did my mother say ? Would 
there were only mother's love, and then I should not be 
here or thus.' 

* I pray you, my child, rest here.' 

* No ! let us to the Place, for an hour ; I shall not sleep 
more than an hour. I am off again directly the storm is 
over. If it had not been for this cursed rain I should have 
caught them. And yet, perhaps, they are in countries 
where there is no rain. Ah! who would believe what 
happens in this world ? Not I, for one. Now, give me 
your arm. Good Glastonbury ! you are always the same. 
You seem to me the only thing in the world that ia un- 


Glastonbury, witli an air of great tenderness and anxiety, 
led his former pupil down the stairs. The weather was 
more calm. There were some dai*k blue rifts in the black 
sky which revealed a star or two. Ferdinand said nothing 
in their progress to the Place except once, when he looked 
up to the sky, and said, as it were to himself, * She loved 
the stars.' 

Glastonbury had some difficulty in rousiDg the man and 
his wife, who were the inmates of the Place ; but it was 
not very late, and, fortunately, they had not retired for the 
night. Lights were brought into Lady Armine's drawing- 
room. Glastonbury led Ferdinand to a sofa, on which he 
rather permitted others to place him than seated himself. 
He took no notice of anything that was going on, but 
remained with his eyes open, gazing feebly with a rather 
vacant air. 

Then the good Glastonbury looked to the arrangement 
of his sleeping-room, drawing the curtains, seeing that the 
bed was well aired and warmed, and himself adding blocks 
to the wood fire which soon kindled. Nor did he forget to 
prepare, with the aid of the good woman, some hot potion 
that might soothe and comfort his stricken and exhausted 
charge, who in this moment of distress and desolation had 
come as it were and thrown himself on the bosom of his 
earliest friend. When all was arranged Glastonbury de- 
scended to Ferdinand, whom he found in exactly the same 
position as that in which he left him. He offered no 
resistance to the invitation of Glastonbury to retire to his 
chamber. He neither moved nor spoke, and yet seemed 
aware of all they were doing. Glastonbury and the stout 
serving-man bore him to his chamber, relieved him from 
his wet garments, and placed him in his earliest bed. When 
Glastonbury bade him good night, Ferdinand faintly pressed 
lua hand, but did not speak ; and it was remarkable, that 
'while he passively submitted to their undressing him, and 



seemed incapable of affording them the slightest aid, yet 
he thrust forth his hand to guard a lock of dark hair that 
was placed next to his heart. 



Those quiet slumbers, that the regular life and innocent 
heart of the good Glastonbury generally ensured, were 
sadly broken this night, as he lay awake meditating oyer 
the distracted fortunes of the house of Armine. They 
seemed now to be most turbulent and clouded ; and that 
brilliant and happy future, in which of late he had so fondly 
indulged, offered nothing but gloom and disquietude. Nor 
was it the menaced disruption of those ties whose consum- 
mation was to restore the greatness and splendour of the 
family, and all the pain and disappointment and mortifica- 
tion and misery that must be its consequence, that sJone 
made him sorrowftd. Glastonbury had a reverence for 
that passion which sheds such a lustre over existence, and 
is the pure and prolific source of much of our better con- 
duct ; the time had been when he, too, had loved, and with 
a religious sanctiiy worthy of his character and office ; he 
had been for a long life the silent and hopeless votary of a 
passion almost ideal, yet happy, though * he never told hi8 
love ; ' and, indeed, although the unconscious mistress of 
his affections had been long removed from that world where 
his fidelity was almost her only comfort, that passion had 
not waned, and the feelings that had been inspired by her 
presence were now cherished by her memory. His tender 
and romantic nature, which his venerable grey hairs had 


neither dulled nor haardened, made Tiirn deeply sympathise 
-with his nnhappy pupil ; the radiant image of Henrietta 
Temple, too, vividly impressed on his memory as it was, 
rose up before him ; he recollected his joy that the chosen 
partner of his Ferdinand's bosom should be worthy of her 
destiny; he thought of this fair creature, perchance in 
solitude and sickness, a prey to the most mortifying and 
miserable emotions, with all her fine and generous feelings 
thrown back upon herself; deeming herself deceived, de- 
serted, outraged, where she had looked for nothing but 
fidelity, and fondness, and support ; losing all confidence 
in the world and the world's ways ; but recently so lively 
with expectation and airy with enjoyment, and now aimless, 
hopeless, wretched, perhaps broken-hearted. 

The tears trickled down the pale cheek of Glastonbury 
as he revolved in his mind these mournful thoughts ; and 
almiost unconsciously he wrung his hands as he felt his 
utter want of power to remedy these sad and piteous cir- 
cumstances. Yet he was not absolutely hopeless. There 
was ever open to the pious Glastonbury one perennial 
source of trust and consolation. This was a fountain that 
was ever fresh and sweet, and he took refuge fi[*om the 
world's harsh courses and exhausting: cares in its salutary* 
&OW and its refreshing shade, when, kneeling before Z 
cmcifix, he commended the unhappy Ferdinand and his 
fiEonily to the superintending care of a mercifdl Omnipo- 

The morning brought fresh anxieties. Glastonbury was 
at the Place at an early hour, and found Ferdinand in a 
high state of fever. He had not slept an instant, was very 
excited, talked of departing immediately, and rambled in 
his discourse. Glastonbury blamed himself for having left 
him a moment, and resolved to do so no more. He en- 
deavoured to soothe him ; assured him that if he would be 
cahxL alL would yet go well ; that they would consult to- 

B 2 


gether what was best to be done ; and that he wonld make 
enquiries after the Temple family. In the meantime he 
despatched the servant for the most eminent pbjmcian of 
the county ; but as hours must necessarily elapse before his 
arrival, the difficuliy of keeping Ferdinand still was very 
great. Talk he would, and of nothing but Henrietta. It 
was really agonising to listeu to his frantic appeals to 
Glastonbury to exert himself to discover her abode; yet 
Glastonbury never left his side ; and with promises, ex- 
pressions of confidence, and the sway of an a£Eected calmness, 
for in truth dear Glastonbury was scarcely less agitated 
than his patient, Ferdinand was prevented from rising, and 
the physician at length arrived. 

After examining Ferdinand, with whom he remained a 
very short space, this gentleman invited Glastonbury to 
descend below, and they left the patient in charge of % 

' This is a bad case,' said the physician. 

^ Almighty God preserve him ! ' exclaimed the agitated 
Glastonbury. * Tell me the worst ! ' 

* Where are Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine ? * 
' At Bath.' 

* They must be sent for instantly.' 

* Is there any hope ? ' 

' There is hope ; that is all. I shall now bleed him 
copiously, and then blister ; but I can do little. "We must 
trust to nature. I am afraid of the brain. I cannot account 
for his state by his getting wet or his rapid travelling. 
Has he anything on his mind ? ' 

* Much,' said Glastonbury. 
The physician shook his head. 

* It is a precious life ! ' said Glastonbury, seizing his arm. 
* My dear doctor, you must not leave us.' 

They returned to the bedchamber. . 

^ Captain Armine,' said the physician, taking his hand 


and seating liimself on the bed, ^ jou have a bad cold and 
some fever ; I think you should lose a little blood.' 

* Can I leave Armine to-day, if I am bled ? ' enquired 
Ferdinand, eagerly, * for go I must.' 

* I would not move to-day,' said the physician. 

* I must, indeed I must. Mr. Glastonbury will tell you 
I must.' 

*If you set off early to-morrow you will get over as 
much ground in four-and-tweniy hours as if you went this 
evening,' said the physician, fixing the bandage on the 
arm as he spoke, and nodding to Mr. Glastonbury to pre- 
pare the basin. 

* To-morrow morning ? ' said Ferdinand. 

* Yes, to-morrow,' said the physician, opening his lancet. 

* Are you sure that I shall be able to set off to-morrow ? ' 
said Ferdinand. 

* Quite,' said the physician, opening the vein. 

The dark blood flowed sullenly ; the physician exchanged 
an anxious glance with Glastonbury ; at length the arm 
was bandaged up, a composing draught, with which the 
physician had been prepared, given to his patient, and the f 
doctor and Glastonbury withdrew. The former now left 
Armine for three hours, and Glastonbury prepared himself 
for his painfiil office of communicating to the parents the 
imminent danger of their only child. 

Never had a more difficult task devolved upon an in- 
dividual than that which now fell to the lot of the good 
Glastonbury, in conducting the affairs of a family labour- 
ing under such remarkable misconceptions as to the po- 
sition and views of its various members. It immediately 
occurred to him, that it was highly probable that Miss 
Grandison, at such a crisis, would choose to accompany the 
parents of her intended husband. What incident, under 
the present circumstances, could be more awkward and 
more painful ? Yet how to prevent its occurrence ? How 


crude to conminiiicate the real state of such a.£Eairs at buj 
time by letter ! How impossible at the mom.e]it he was 
preparing the parents for the alarming, perhaps fatal iUness 
of their child, to enter on such subjects at all, mnch more 
when the very revelation, at a moment which required all 
their energy and promptitude, would only be occasioning 
at Bath scenes scarcely less distracting and disastrous than 
those occurring at Armine. It was clearly impossible to 
enter into any details at present; and yet Glastonbury, 
while he penned the sorrow^ lines, ssid softened the sad 
communication with his sympathy, added a somewhat sly 
postscript, wherein he impressed upon Lady Armine the 
advisability, for various reasons, that she should only be 
accompanied by her husband. 



The contingency which Glastonbury feared, surely hap- 
pened ; Miss Grandison insisted upon immediately rushing 
to her Ferdinand ; and as the maiden axmt was stiU an in- 
valid, and was incapable of enduring the &itigues of a rapid 
and anxious journey, she was left behind. Within a few 
hours of the receipt of Glastonbury's letter. Sir Batcliffe 
and Lady Airmine, and their niece, were on their way. 
They found letters fix)m Glastonbury in London, whicsh 
made them travel to Armine even through the night. 

Li spite of all his remedies, the brain fever which the 
physician foresaw had occurred; and when his family 
arrived, the life of Ferdinand was not only in danger but 
desperate. It was impossible that even the parents could 
see their child, and no one was allowed to enter his 


chamber but his nurse, the physician, and occasionally 
Glastonbury; for this name, with others less familiar to 
the household, sounded so often on the frenzied hps of the 
sufferer, that it was recommended that Glastonbury should 
often be at his bedside. Yet he must leave it, to receive 
the wretched Sir Eatcliffe and his wife and their discon- 
solate companion. !N^ever was so much unhappiness con- 
gregated together under one roof; and yet, perhaps 
Glastonbury, though the only one who retained the least 
command over himself, was, with his sad secret, the most 
woe-begone of the tribe. 

As for La4y Armine, she sat without the door of her 
son's chamber the whole day and night, clasping a crucifix 
in her hands, and absorbed in silent prayer. Sir Eatcliffe 
remained below prostrate. The unhappy Katherine in vain 
offered the consolation she herself so needed ; and would 
have wandered about that Armine of which she had heard 
so much, and where she was to have been so happy, a 
forlorn and solitary being, had it not been for the atten- 
tions of the considerate Glastonbury, who embraced every 
oppartunity of being her companion. His patience, his 
heavenly resignation, his pious hope, hid vigilant care, his 
spiritual consolation, occasionally even the gleams of agree- 
able converse with which he attempted to divert her mind, 
consoled and maintained her. How often did she look at 
his bcmignant countenance, and not wonder that the Ar- 
mines were so attached to this engaging and devoted 
friend P 

For three days did the unhappy family expect in terrible 
anticipation that each moment would witness the last 
event in the life of their sod. His distracted voice caught 
too often the vigilant and agonised ear of his mother ; yet 
she gave no evidence of the pang, except by clasping her 
crucifix with increased energy. She had promised the 
physician that she would command herself, that no sound 


shonld escape her lips, and she rigidly fulfilled the contract 
on which she was permitted to remain. 

On the eve of the fourth day Ferdinand, who had never 
yet closed his eyes, hut who had become daring the last 
twelve hours somewhat more composed, fell into a slumber. 
The physician lightly dropped the hand which he had 
scarcely ever quitted, and, stealing out of the room, 
beckoned, his finger pressed to his lips, to Lady Armine 
to follow him. Assured by the symbol that the worst had 
not yet happened, she followed the physician to the end of 
the gallery, and he then told her that immediate danger 
was past. 

* And now, my dear madam,' said the physician to her, 
* you must breathe some fresh air. Oblige me by descend- 

Lady Armine no longer refused ; she repaired with a 
slow step to Sir Eatclifie; she leant npon her husband's 
breast as she murmured to him her hopes. They went 
forth together. Elatherine and Glastonbury were in the 
garden. The appearance of Lady Armine gave them hopes. 
There was a faint smile on her face which needed not words 
to explain it. Katherine sprang forward, and threw her 
arms round her aunt's neck. 

'He may be saved! he may be saved,' whispered the 
mother ; for in this hushed house of impending death they 
had lost almost the power as well as the habit, of speaking 
in any other tone. 

* He sleeps,' said the physician ; * all present danger is 

* It is too great joy,' murmured Katherine ; and Glas- 
tonbury advanced and caught in his arms her insensible 




From the moment of this happy slumber Ferdinand con- 
tinued to improve. Each day the bulletin was more favour- 
able, until his progress, though slow, was declared certain, 
and even relapse was no longer apprehended. But his 
physician would not allow him to see any one of his femily. 
It was at night, and during his slumbers, that Lady 
Armine stole into his room to gaze upon her beloved child ; 
and, if he moved in the slightest degree, faithful to her 
promise and the injunction of the physician, she instantly 
glided behind his curtain, or a large Indian screen which 
she had placed there purposely. Often, indeed, did she 
remain in this fond lurking-place, silent and trembling, 
when her child was even awake, listening to every breath, 
and envying the nurse that might gaze on him undis- 
turbed ; nor would she allow any sustenance that he was 
ordered to be prepared by any but her own fair, fond hands ; 
and she brought it herself even to his door. For Ferdinand 
bimself, though his replies to the physician suflBciently 
attested the healthy calnmess of his mind, he indeed other- 
wise never spoke, but lay on his bed without repining, and 
seemingly plunged in mild and pensive abstraction. At 
length, one morning he enquired for Glastonbury, who, with 
the sanction of the physician, immediately attended him. 

When he met the eye of that faithful friend he tried to 
extend his hand. It was so wan that Glastonbury trembled 
while he tonched it. 

*I have given you much trouble,' he said, in a faint 

* I think only of the happiness of your recovery,* said 


* Yes, I am recovered,* mnrmured Ferdinand ; ' it was 
not my wish.' 

' Oh ! be gratefiil to Gt)d for this great mercy, my Fer- 

* You have heard nothing ? ' enquired Ferdinand. 
Glastonbury shook his head. 

* Fear not to speak ; I can struggle no more. I am re- 
signed. I am very much changed.' 

* You will be happy, dear Ferdinand,' said Glastonbury, 
to whom this mood gave hopes. 

* Never,' he said, in a more energetic tone ; * never.' 

* There are so many that love you,' said Glastonbury, 
leading his thoughts to his family. 

^ Love ! ' exclaimed Ferdinand, with a edgh, and in a tone 
almost reproach^. 

* Your dear mother,' said Glastonbury. 

* Yes ! my dear mother,' replied Ferdinand, musingly. 
Then in a quicker tone, 'Does she know of my illness? 
Did you write to them ? ' 

* She knows of it.' 

* She will be coming, then. I dread her coming. I can 
bear to see no one. You, dear Glastonbury, you ; it is a 
consolation to see you, because you have seen,' and here 
his voice faltered, * you have seen her.* 

* My Ferdinand, think only of your health ; and happi- 
ness; believe me, will yet be yours.' 

*If you could only find out where she is,' continued 
Ferdinand, * and go to to her. Yes ! my dear Glastonbury, 
good, dear, Glastonbury, go to her,' he added in an implor- 
mg tone ; * she would believe you ; everyone believes you. 
I cannot go ; I am powerless ; and if I went, alas 1 sho 
would not believe me.' 

* It is my wish to do everything you desire,' said Glas- 
tonbury, < I should be content to be ever labouring for your 
happiness. But I can do nothing unless you are calm.' 


* I am cabn ; I will be calm ; I -svill act entirely as yon 
wish ; only I beseech you see her.' 

* On that head let ns at present say no more/ replied 
Glastonbury, who feared that excitement might lead to 
relapse ; yet anxious to soothe him, he added, * Trust in 
my humble services ever, and in the bounty of a merciful 

*I have had fiightfol dreams,' said Ferdinand. *I 
thought I was in a farm-house ; everything was so clear, 
so vivid. Night after night she seemed to me sitting on 
this bed. * I touched her ; her hand was in mine ; it was 
so burning hot ! Once, oh ! once, once I thought she had 
forgiven me ! * 

* Hush ! hush ! hush ! ' 

* No more : we will speak of her no more. When comes 
my mother ? ' 

* You may see her to-morrow, or the day after.' 

* Ah ! Glastonbury, she is here.' 

* She is.' 

* Is she alone ? ' 

* Your father is with her.' 

* My mother and my father. It is well.' Then, after a 
minute's pause, he added with some earnestness, ' Do not 
deceive me, Glastonbury ; see what deceit has brought me 
to. Are you sure that they are quite alone.' 

* There are none here but your dearest Mends ; none 
whose presence should give you the slightest care.' 

* There is one,' said Ferdinand. 

* Dear Ferdinand, let me now leave you, or sit by your 
side in silence. To-morrow you will see your mother.' 

* To-morrow ! Ah ! to-morrow. Once to me to-morrow 
was brighter even than to-day.' He turned his back and 
spoke no more. Glastonbury glided out of the room. 





It was absolutely necessary that Lady Annine's inteirview 
with her son should be confined merely to observationB 
about his health. Any allusion to the past might not only 
produce a relapse of his fever, but occasion explanations, at 
all times most painful, but at the present full of difficulty 
and danger. It was therefore with feelings of no common 
anxiety that Glastonbury prepared the mother for this first 
visit to her son, and impressed upon her the absolute 
necessiiy of not making any allusion at present to Miss 
Grandison, and especially to her presence in the house. 
He even made for this purpose a sort of half-confidant of 
the physician, who, in truth, had heard enough during the 
fever to excite his suspicions ; but this is a class of men 
essentially discreet, and it is well, for few are the family 
secrets ultimately concealed from them. 

The interview occurred without any disagreeable results. 
The next day, Ferdinand saw his father for a few minutes. 
In a short time, Lady Armine was established as nurse to 
her son ; Sir Ratcliffe, easy in mind, amused himself with 
his sports; and Glastonbury devoted himself to Miss 
Grandison. The intimacy, indeed, between the tutor of 
Ferdinand and his intended bride became daily more 
complete, and Glastonbury was almost her inseparable 
companion. She found him a very interesting one. H© 
was the most agreeable guide amid all the haunts of Armine 
and its neighbourhood, and drove her delightfully in Lady 
Armine's pony phaeton. He could share, too, all her 
pursuits, and open to her many new ones. Though time 
had stolen something of its force fix)m the voice of Adrian 
Glastonbury, it still was wondrous sweet; his musical 


accomplisliinents were complete; and he could guide the 
pencil or prepare the herbal, and indite fair stanzas in his 
fine Italian hand- writing in a lady's album. All his collec- 
tions, too, were at Miss Grandison's service. She handled 
with rising curiosity his medals, copied his choice drawings, 
and even began to study heraldry. His interesting con- 
versation, his mild and benignant manners, his captivating 
simpliciiy, and the elegant purity of his mind, secured her 
confidence and won her heart. She loved him as a father, 
and he soon exercised over her an influence almost irre- 

Every morning as soon as he awoke, every evening before 
he composed himself again for the night's repose, Ferdinand 
sent for Glastonbury, and always saw him alone. At first 
he requested his mother to leave the room, but Lady Arming, 
who attributed these regular visits to a spiritual cause, 
scarcely needed the expression of this desire. His first 
questions to Glastonbury were ever the same. *Had he 
heard anything? Were there any letters? He thought 
there might be a letter, was he sure ? Had he sent to 
Bath ; to London, for his letters ? ' When he was answered 
in the negative, he usually dwelt no more upon the subject. 
One morning he said to Glastonbury, * I know Katherine is 
in the house.' 

* Hiss Grandison is here,' replied Glastonbury. 

* Why don't they mention her ? Is all known ? ' 

* Nothing is known,' said Glastonbury. 

* Why don't they mention her, then ? Are you sure all 
is not known ? ' 

' At my suggestion, her name has not been mentioned. 
I was unaware how you might receive the intelligence ; but 
the true cause of my suggestion is still a secret.' 

* I must see her,' said Ferdinand, * I must speak to her.' 

* You can see her when you please,' replied Glastonbury ; 
•"but I would not speak upon the great subject at present/ 


' Bat she is existing all this time under a delusion. Eyeij 
day makes my conduct to her more infamons.' 

'Miss Grandison is a wise and most admirable yonng 
lady/ said Glastonbury. * I love her firom the bottom of 
my heart; I would recommend no conduct that could 
injure her, assuredly none that can disgrace you.' 

* Dear Glastonbury, what shall I do ? ' 

'Be silent; the time will come when you may speak. 
At present, however anxious she may be to see you, tiiere 
are plausible reasons for your not meeting. Be patient, my 

' Gt)od Glastonbury, good, dear Glastonbury, I am too 
quick and firetful. Pardon me, dear Mend. You know 
not what I feel. Thank God, you do not ; but my heart is 

When Glastonbury returned to the library, he found 
Sir Ratcliffe playing with his dogs, and Miss Grandison 
copying a drawing. 

* How is Ferdinand ? ' enquired the father. 

* He mends daily,* replied Glastonbury. * If only May- 
day were at hand instead of Christmas, he would soon be 
himself again ; but I dread the winter.' 

* And yet the sun shines ? ' said Miss Grandison. 
Glastonbury went to the window and looked at the sky. 

* I think, my dear lady, we might almost Venture upon our 
promised excursion to the Abbey to-day. Such a day as 
this may not quickly be repeated. We might take our 

'It would be delightful,' said Miss Grandison; *but 
oefore I go, I must pick some flowers for Ferdinand.' So 
saying, she sprang from her seat, and ran out into the garden. 

* Kate is a sweet creature,' said Sir Ratclifie to Glaston- 
bury. * Ah ! my dear Glastonbury, you know not what 
happiness I experience in the thought that she will soon be 
my daughter.' 


Glastonbury could not refrain from siglung. He took 
np the pencil and touched her drawing. 

* Do you know, dear Glastonbury,' resumed Sir Ratcliffe, 
* I had little hope in our late visitation. I cannot say I 
had prepared myself for the worst, but I anticipated it. 
We have had so much unhappiness in our family, that I 
could not persuade myself that the cup was not going to 
be dashed from our lips.' 

* God is merdfal,' said Glastonbury. 

* You are his minister, dear Glastonbury, and a worthy 
one. I know not what we should have done without you 
in this awftd trial ; but, indeed, what could I have done 
throughout life without you ? ' 

* Let us hope that everything is for the best,' said Glas- 

'And his mother, his poor mother, what would have 
become of her ? She never could have survived his loss. 
As for mtyself, I would have quitted England for ever, and 
gone into a monastery.' 

* Let us only remember that he lives,' said Glastonbury. 

* And that we shall soon all be happy,' said Sir Batcliffe, 
in a more animated tone. * The fdture is, indeed, fiill of 
solace. But we must take care of him ; he is too rapid in 
Kb movements. He has my father's blood in him, that is 
clear. I never could well make out why he left Bath so 
suddenly, and rushed down in so strange a manner to this 

* Youth is impetuous,' said Glastonbury. 

* It was lucky you were here, Glastonbury.' 

*I thank Qod that I was,' said Glastonbury, earnestly ; 
th.en checking himself, he added, * that I have been of any 

*Tou are always of use. What should we do without 
yon? I should long ago have sunk. Ah! Glastonbury, 
^^d m his mercy sent you to us.' 


' See here,' said Elatherine, entering, her fair cheek 
glowing with animation, * only dahlias, but they will look 
pretty, and enliven his room. Oh ! that I might write him 
a Uttle word, and tell him I am here ! Do not yon think I 
might, Mr. Glastonbury ? ' 

* He will know that you are here to-day,' said Glaston- 
bury. 'To-morrow ' 

' Ah ! you always postpone it,' said Miss Grandison, in a 
tone half playful, half reproachful ; ' and yet it is selfish to 
murmur. It is for his good that I bear this bereayement, 
and that thought should console me. Heigho ! ' 

Sir Katcliffe stepped forward and kissed his nieca 
Glastonbury was busied on the drawing : he turned awaj 
his &ce. 

Sir Katclifie took up his gun. ' God bless you, dear 
Kate,' he said ; * a pleasant drive and a choice sketch. We 
shall meet at dinner.' 

' At dinner, dear uncle ; and better sport than yesterday/ 

' Ha ! ha !' said Sir Batcliffe. 'But Armine is not like 
Grandison. If I were in the old presenres, you should have 
no cause to jeer at my sportsmanship.' 

Miss Grandison's good wishes were prophetic : Sir Bat- 
cliffe found excellent sport, and returned home very late, 
.and in capital spirits. It was the dinner-hour, and yet 
Katherine and Glastonbujy had not retomed. He was 
rather surprised. The shades of evening were fast descend- 
ing, and the distant lawns of Armine were already invisible; 
the low moan of the rising wind might be just distin- 
guished; and the coming night promised to be raw and 
cloudy, perhaps tempestuous. Sir Batcliffe stood before 
the crackling fire in the dining-room, otherwise in daikness, 
but the flame threw a bright yet glancing light upon the 
Snyders, so that the fiigures seemed reallj to move in the 
shifting shades, the eye of the infuriate boar almoat to emit 
spa^s of rage, and there wanted but the shoats of the 


lirmtsnieii and the panting of the dogs to complete the 
tumult of the chase. 

Just as Sir B.atcliffe was anticipating some mischance to 
his absent friends, and was about to steal upon tip-toe to 
Lady Armine, who was with Ferdinand, to consult her, the 
practised ear of a man who lived much in the air caught 
the distant sound of wheels, and he went out to welcome 

* Why, you are late,' said Sir Ratcliffe, as the phaeton 
approached the house. * All right, I hope ? ' 

He stepped forward to assist Miss Grandison. The 
darkness of the eveniDg prevented him from observing her 
swollen eyes and agitated countenance. She sprang out 
of the carriage in silence, and immediately ran up into her 
room. As for Glastonbury, he only observed it was very 
cold, and entered the house with Sir Ratcliffe. 

' This fire is hearty,' said Glastonbury, warming himself 
before it : * you have had good sport, I hope ? We are not 
to wait dinner for Miss Grandison, Sir Ratcliflfe. She will 
not come down this evening ; she is not very well.' 

* Not very well : ah ! the cold, I fear. You have been 
imprudent in staying so late. I must run and tell Lady 

* Oblige me, I pray, by not doing so,' said Glastonbury ; 
* Miss Grandison most particularly requested that she should 
not be distnrbed.' 

It was with some difficulty that Glastonbury could con- 
trive that Miss Grandison's wishes should be complied 
with ; but at length he succeeded in getting Sir Ratclifie 
to sit down to dinner, and affecting a cheerfttlness which 
was for from his spirit, the hour of ten at length arrived, 
and Glastonbury, before retiring to his tower, paid his 
evening visit to Ferdinand. 






If ever there were a man who deserved a serene and 
happy life it was Adrian Glastonbnry. He had pnrsned a 
long' career without injuring or offending a human being ; 
his character and conduct were alike, spotless ; he was void 
of guile ; he had never told a falsehood, never been en- 
tangled in the slightest deceit ; he was easy in his circum- 
stances ; he had no relations to prey upon his purse or his 
feelings ; and, though alone in the world, was blessed with 
such a sweet and benignant temper, gifted with so many 
resources, and adorned with so many accomplishments, 
that he appeared to be always employed, aniused, and con- 
tented. And yet, by a strange contrariety of events, it 
appeared that this excellent person was now placed in a 
situation which is generally the consequence of impetuons 
passions not very scrupulous in obtaining their ends. That 
breast, which heretofore would have shrunk fix)m being 
analysed only from the refined modesty of its nature, had 
now become the depository of terrible Secrets : the day 
could scarcely pass over without finding him in a position 
which rendered equivocation on his part almost a necessity, 
while all the anxieties inseparable from pecuniary embar- 
rassments were forced upon his attention, and his feelings 
were racked from sympathy with individuals who were 
bound to him by no other tie, but to whose welfare he felt 
himself engaged to sacrifice all his pursuits, and devote all 
his time and labour. And yet he did not murmur, although 
he had scarcely hope to animate him. In whatever light 
he viewed coming events, they appeared ominous only of 
evil. All that he aimed at now was to soothe and support, 


md it was his unsliakeii confidence in Providence that 
ilone forbade him to despair. 

Wlien he repaired to the Place in the morning he found 
Bverything in confusion. Miss Grandison was very unweU ; 
and Lady Armine, frightened by the recent danger from 
which, they had escaped, very alarmed. She could no 
longer conceal from Ferdinand that his Katherine was here, 
Bmd perhaps Lady Armine was somewhat surprised at the 
sahnness with which her son received the intelligence. 
But Miss Grandison was not only very unwell but very 
Dbstinate. She would not leave her room, but insisted that 
QO medical advice should be called in. Lady Armine pro- 
tested, supplicated, adjured ; Miss Grandison appealed to 
Mr. Glastonbury ; and Glastonbury, who was somewhat of 
Eb physician, was called in, and was obliged to assure Lady 
Armine that Miss Grandison was only sufiering from a cold 
md only required repose. A warm friendship subsisted 
between Lady Armine and her niece. She had always been 
Blatherine's favourite aunt, and during the past year there 
bad been urgent reasons why Lady Armine should have 
cherished this predisposition in her favour. Lady Armine 
w^as a fascinating person, and all her powers had been 
employed to obtain an influence over the heiress. They had 
been qxdte successftd. Miss Grandison looked forward 
almost with as much pleasure to being Lady Armine' s 
daughter as her son's bride. The intended mother-in-law 
was in turn as warm-hearted as her niece was engaging ; and 
eTentuaUy Lady Armine loved Katherine for herself alone. 

Li a few days, however. Miss Grandison announced that 

she was quite recovered, and Lady Armine again devoted 

her unbroken attention to her son, who was now about to 

Tise for the first time from his bed. But although Miss 

Ghrandison was no longer an invalid, it is quite certain that 

if the attention of the other members of the family had not 

been so entirely engrossed, that a very great change in her 



bebaviour could not have escaped their notice. Her flowers 
and drawings seemed to have lost their relish ; her gaiety 
to have deserted her. She passed a great portion of the 
morning in her room ; and although it was announced to 
her that Ferdinand was aware of her being an inmate of 
the Place, and that in a day or two they might meet, she 
scarcely evinced, at this prospect of resuming his society, 
so much gratification as might have been expected ; and 
though she daily took care that his chamber should still be 
provided with flowers, it might have been remarked that the 
note she had been so anxious to send him was never written. 
But how much, under the commonest course of circum- 
stances, happens in all domestic circles that is never ob- 
served or never remarked till the observation is too late ! 

At length the day arrived when Lady Ajmine invited 
her niece to visit her son. Miss Grandison expressed her 
readiness to accompany her aunt, but took an opportunity 
of requesting Glastonbury to join them; and all three 
proceeded to the chamber of the invalid. 

The white curtain of the room was drawn ; but though 
the light was softened, the apartment was by no means 
obscure. Ferdinand was sitting in an easy-chair, supported 
by pillows. A black handkerchief was just twined ronnd 
his forehead, for his head had been shaved, except a few 
curls on the side and front, which looked stark and lustre- 
less. He was so thin and pale, and his eyes and cheeb 
were so wan and hollow, that it was scarcely credible 
that in so short a space of time a man could have become 
such a wreck. When he saw Katherine he involuntarily 
dropped his eyes, but extended his hand to her with some 
effort of earnestness. She was almost as pale as he, bat 
she took his hand. It was so light and cold, it felt so mncli 
like death, that the tears stole down her cheek. 

' You hardly know me, Katherine,' said Ferdinand, feebly. 
* This is good of you to visit a sick man.' 


Miss Grandison could not reply, and Lady Armine made 
an observation to break the awkward pause. 

*And bow do you like Armine?' said Ferdinand. *I 
wisb tbat I could be your guide. But Glastonbury is so 

A bundred times Miss Grandison tried to reply, to speak, 
to make tbe commonest observation, but it was in vain. 
Sbe grew, paler every moment ; ber Hps moved, but tbey 
sent forth no sound. 

'Kate is not well,' said Lady Armine. *Sbe bas been 
very unwell. This visit,' she added in a whisper to 
Ferdinand, 'is a little too much for her.' 

Ferdinand sighed. 

* Mother,' he at length said, * you must ask Katherine to 
come and sit here with you; if indeed she will not feel the 

Miss Grandison turned in her chair, and bid her face 
with her handkerchief. 

* My sweet child,' said Lady Armine, rising and kissing 
W, * this is too much for you. You really must restrain 
yourself. Ferdinand will soon be himself again ; he will 

Miss Grandison sobbed aloud. Glastonbury was much 
distressed, but Ferdinand avoided catching liis eye ; and 
yet, at last, Ferdinand said with an efFort and in a very 
kind voice, * Dear Kate, come and sit by me.' 

Miss Grandison went into hysterics ; Ferdinand sprang 
from his chair and seized her hand ; Lady Armine tried 
to restrain her son ; Glastonbury held the agitated Kathe- 

*For God's sake, Ferdinand, be calm,' exclaimed Lady 
Armine. *This is most tmfortunate. Dear, dear Kathe- 
rine, but she has such a heart ! All the women have in 
OUT family, and none of the men, 'tis so odd. Mr. Glaston- 
bn^, water if you please, that glass of water ; sal volatile ; 


where is the sal volatile? My own, own Katherine, pray, 
pray restrain yourself! Ferdinand is here; remember, 
Ferdinand is here, and he wiU soon be well; soon quite 
well. Believe me, he is already quite another thing. 
There, drink that, darling, drink that. You are better 
now ? ' 

*I am so fooHsh,' said Miss Grandison, in a moumfiil 
voice. * I never can pardon myself for this. Let me go.* 

Glastonbury bore her out of the room; Lady Armine 
turned to her son. He was lying back in his chair, his 
hands covering his eyes. The mother stole gently to him, 
and wiped tenderly his brow, on which hung the light 
drops of perspiration, occasioned by his recent exertion. 

* We have done too much, my own dear Ferdinand. Yet 
who could have expected that dear girl would have been 
so affected ? Glastonbury was indeed right in preventing 
you so long fix)m meeting. And yet it is a blessiog to see 
that she has so fond a heart. You are fortunate, my 
Ferdinand : you will indeed be happy with her.' 

Ferdinand groaned. 

* I shaU never be happy,' he murmured. 

' Never happy, my Ferdinand ! Oh ! you must not be so 
low-spirited. Think how much better you are ; think, my 
Ferdinand, what a change there is for the better. You will 
soon be well, dearest, and then, my love, you know you 
cannot help being happy.' 

* Mother,' said Ferdinand, * you are deceived ; you are all 
deceived : I, I ' 

'No! Ferdinand, indeed we are not. I am confident, 
and I praise God for it, that you are getting better every 
day. But you have done too much, that is the truth. I 
will leave you now, love, and send the nurse, for my pre- 
sence excites you. Try to sleep, love.' And Lady Armine 
rang the bell, and quitted the room. 




Ladt Arhine now proposed that the family should meet 
in Ferdinand's room after dinner ; but Glastonbury, whose 
opinion on most subjects generally prevailed, scarcely 
approved of this suggestion. It was therefore but onc^ 
acted upon during the week that followed tlio scene de- 
scribed in our last chapter, and on that evening Miss Gran* 
dison had so severe a head-ache, that it was quite impossible 
for her to join the circle. At length, however, Ferdinand 
made his appearance below, and established himself in the 
library : it now, therefore, became absolutely necessary that 
Miss Ghrandison should steel her nerves to the altered state 
of her betrothed, which had at first apparently so much 
affected her sensibility, and, by the united influence of 
habit and Mr. Glastonbury, it is astonishing what i)rogross 
she made. She even at last could so command her feelings, 
that she apparently greatly contributed to his amusement. 
She joined in the family concerts, once even read to him. 
Every morning, too, she brought him a flower, and often 
offered him her arm. And yet Ferdinand could not resist 
observing a great difference in her behaviour towards him 
since he had last quitted her at Bath. Far from conduct^ 
ing herself, as he had nervously apprehended, as if her 
claim to be his companion were irresistible, her carriage, 
on the contrary, indicated the most retiring disposition; 
she annoyed him with no expressions of fondness, and 
listened to the kind words which he occasionally urged 
himself to bestow upon her with a sentiment of grave 
regard and placid silence, which almost filled him with 


One morning, the weather being clear and fine, Ferdinand 
insisted that his mother, who had as yet scarcely quitted 
his side, should drive ont with Sir Ratclifie ; and, as he 
would take no reftisal, Lady Armine agreed to comply. 
The carriage was ordered, was at the door ; and as Lady 
Armine bade him adieu, Ferdinand rose from his seat and 
took the arm of Miss Grandison, who seemed on the point 
of retiring ; for Glastonbury remained, and therefore Fer- 
dinand was not without a companion. 

' I will see you go ofi*,' said Ferdinand. 

* Adieu ! ' said Lady Armine. * Take care of him, dear 
Kate,' and the phaeton was soon out of sight. 

* It is more like May than January,' said Ferdinand to 
his cousin. ' I fancy I should like to walk a Httle.' 

' Shall I send for Mr. Glastonbnrv ? ' said E^therine. 

' Not if my arm be not too heavy for you,' said Ferdinand. 
So they walked slowly on, perhaps some fifty yards, until 
they arrived at a garden-seat, very near the rose-tree whose 
flowers Henrietta Temple so much admired. It had no 
flowers now, but seemed as desolate as their tmhappy loves. 

* A moment's rest,' said Ferdinand, and sighed. * Dear 
Kate, I wish to speak to you.' 

Miss Grandison turned pale. 

* I have something on my mind, Katherine, of which I 
wonld endeavour to relieve myself.' 

Miss Grandison did not reply, but she trembled. *It 
concerns you, Katherine.' 

Still she was silent, and expressed no astonishment at 
this strange address. 

* If I were anything now but an object of pity, a miser- 
able and broken-hearted man,' continued Ferdinand, *I 
might shrink from this conmiunication ; I might delegate 
to another this office, humiliating as it then might be ta 
me, painful as it must, under any circumstances, be to you. 
But,' and here his voice faltered, * but I am far beyond the 


power of any inortification now. The world and the world's 
ways toucli me no more. There is a duty to fulfil ; I will 
falfil it. I have offended against you, my sweet and gentle 
cousin ; grievously, bitterly, infamously offended.' 

* No, no, no ! ' murmured Miss Grandison. 

* E^therine, I am unworthy of you ; I have deceived you. 
It is neither for your honour nor your happiness that these 
ties which our Mends anticipate should occur between us* 
But, Katherine, you are avenged.' 

* Oh ! I want no vengeance ! ' muttered Miss Grandison^ 
her face pale as marble, her eyes convulsively closed. * Cease, 
cease, Ferdinand ; this conversation is madness ; you will 
be ill again.' 

* No, Eoitherine, I am calm. Fear not for me. There is 
mnch to tell ; it must be told, if only that you should not 
believe that I was a systematic villain, or that my feelings 
were engaged to another when I breathed to you those 

* Oh ! anything but that ; speak of anything but that I * 
Ferdinand took her hand. 

* Katherine, listen to me. I honour you, my gentle 
cousin, I admire, I esteem you ; I could die content if I 
could but see you happy. "With your charms and virtues,. 
I thought that we might be happy. My intentions were 
as sincere as my belief in our future felicity. Oh ! no, dear 
Katherine, I could not trifle with so pure and gentle a bosom.' 

* Have I accused you, Ferdinand ? ' 

* But you will, when you know all.' 

* I do know all,' said Miss Grandison, in a hollow voice. 
Her hand fell from the weak and trembling grasp of her 


* You do know all ! ' he at length exclaimed. * And can 
you, knowing all, live under the same roof with me ? Can 
you see me? Can you listen to me? Is not my voice 
tortore to you ? Do you not hate and despise me ? ' 


' It is not my nature to liate anything ; least of all conld 
I liate yon.' 

* And conld yoxi, knowing all, still minister to my wants 
and watch my sad necessities? This gentle arm of yours ; 
conld yon, knowing all, let me lean upon it this morning P 
O Katherine ! a happy lot be yours, for you deserve one I ' 

' Ferdinand, I have acted as duty, religion, and it may 
be, some other considerations prompted me. My feelings 
have not been so much considered that they need now be 

* Reproach me, Katherine, I deserve your reproaches.' 
*Mine may not be the only reproaches that you have 

deserved, Ferdinand ; but permit me to remark, from me 
you have received none. I pity you, I sincerely pity you.' 

* Glastonbury has told you ? ' said Ferdinand. 

* That communication is among the other good oflfices we 
owe him,' replied Miss Grandison. 

* He told you ? ' said Ferdinand, enquiringly. 

*A11 that it was necessary I should know for your 
honour, or, as some might think, for my own happiness ; no 
more, I would listen to no more. I had no idle curiosity 
to gratify. It is enough that your heart is another's ; I 
seek not, I wish not, to know that person's name.' 

* I cannot mention it,' said Ferdinand ; * but there is no 
secret from you. Glastonbury may, should tell all.' 

* Amid the wretched she is not the least miserable,' said 
Miss Grandison. 

* O Katherine ! ' said Ferdinand, after a moment's pause, 
* tell me that you do not hate me ; tell me that you pardon 
me ; tell me that you think me more mad than wicked ! ' 

' Ferdinand,' said Miss Grandison, * I think we are both 

* I am without hope,' said Ferdinand ; * but you, Katherine, 
your life must still be bright and fair.' 

* I can never be happy, Ferdinand, if you are not. I am 


alone in the world. Your fekmilj are my only relations ; I 
cling to them. Your mother is my mother; I love her 
with the passion of a child. I looked upon our union only 
as the seal of that domestic feeling that had long bound us 
all. My happiness now entirely depends upon your family ; 
theirs I feel is staked upon you. It is the conviction of 
the total desolation that must occur if our estrangement 
be suddenly made known to them, and you, who are so 
impetuous, decide upon any rash course, in consequence, 
that has induced me to sustain the painfdl part that I now 
uphold. This is the reason that I would not reproach you, 
Ferdinand, that I would not quarrel with you, that I would 
not desert them in this hour of their aflfliction.' 

* E^therine, beloved Katherine I ' exclaimed the distracted 
Ferdinand, * why did we ever part ? ' 

* No ! Ferdinand, let us not deceive ourselves. For me, 
that separation, however fruitfol at the present moment 
in mortification and unhappiness, must not be considered 
altogether an event of unmingled misfortune. In my 
opinion, Ferdinand, it is better to be despised for a moment 
than to be neglected for a life.' 

* Despised ! Katherine, for God's sake, spare me ; for 
Grod's sake, do not use such language ! Despised ! Kathe- 
rine, at this moment I declare most solemnly aU that I feel 
is, how thoroughly, how infamously unworthy I am of you ! 
Dearest Katherine, we cannot recall the past, we cannot 
amend it; but let me assure you that at this very hour 
there is no being on earth I more esteem, more reverence 
than yourself.' 

*It is well, Ferdinand. I would not willingly beHeve 
that your feelings towards me were otherwise than kind 
and generous. But let us understand each other. I shall 
remain at present under this roof. Do not misapprehend 
my views. I seek not to recall your afiections. The past 
has proved to me that we are completely unfitted for each 


other. I liave not those dazzling qnalities that conld 
enchain a fiery brain like yours. I know myself; I know 
you; and there is nothing that wonld fill me with more 
terror now than onr anticipated nnion. And now, after 
this frank conversation, let onr future intercourse be cordial 
and unembarrassed; let us remember we are kinsfolk. 
The feelings between us should by nature be amiable : no 
incident has occurred to disturb them, for I have not 
injured or ofFended you ; and as for your conduct towards 
me, from the bottom of my heart I pardon and forget it.' 

* Katherine,' said Ferdinand, with streaming eyes, ' kind- 
est, most generous of women! My heart is too moved, 
my spirit too broken, to express what I feel. We are 
kinsfolk ; let us be more. You say my mother is your 
mother. Let me assert the privilege of that admission. 
Let me be a brother to you ; you shall find me, if I live, a 
faithful one.' 



Ferdinand felt much calmer in his mind after this conver- 
sation with his cousin. Her affectionate attention to him 
now, instead of filHng him as it did before with remorse, 
was really a source of consolation, if that be not too strong 
a phrase to describe the state of one so thoroughly wretched 
as Captain Armine ; for his terrible illness and impending 
death had not in the slightest degree allayed or affected 
his profound passion for Henrietta Temple. Her image 
unceasingly engaged his thoughts; he still clung to the 
wild idea that she might yet be his. But his health im- 
proved so slowly, that there was faint hope of his speedily 


taking any steps to indace sucli a result. All his enquiries 
after her, and Glastonbury, at his suggestion, had not been 
idle, were quite fruitless. He made no doubt that she had 
quitted England. What might not happen, far away from 
him, and believing herself betrayed and deserted ? Often 
when he brooded over these terrible contingencies, he re- 
gretted his recovery. 

Yet his family, thanks to the considerate conduct of his 
admirable cousin, were still contented and happy. His 
slow convalescence was now their only source of anxiety. 
They regretted the unfavourable season of the year; they 
looked forward with hope to the genial influence of the 
coming spring. That was to cure all their cares ; and yet 
they might well suspect, when they watched* his ever 
pensive, and often suffering countenance, that there were 
deeper causes than physical debility and bodily pain to 
account for that moody and woe-begone expression. Alas ! 
how changed from that Ferdinand Armine, so full of hope, 
and courage, and youth, and beauty, that had burst on 
their enraptured vision on his return from Malta. Where 
was that gaiety now that made all eyes sparkle, that viva- 
cious spirit that kindled energy in every bosom ? How 
miserable to see him crawling about with a wretched stick, 
with his thin, pale face, and totteriug limbs, and scarcely 
any other pursuit than to creep about the pleasaunce, 
where, when the dajr was fair, his servant would place a 
camp-stool opposite the cedar tree where he had first 
behield Henrietta Temple; and there he would sit, until 
the unkind winter breeze would make him shiver, gazing 
on vacancy ; yet peopled to his mind's eye with beautiful 
and fearful apparitions. 

. And it is love, it is the most delightful of human passions, 
that can bring about such misery! Why will its true 
course never run smooth ? Is there a spell over our heart, 
that its finest emotions should lead only to despair ? When 


Ferdinand Armine, in his reveries, dwelt npon the past ; 
when he recalled the honr that he had first seen her, her first 
glance, the first sound of her voice, his visit to Ducie, all 
the passionate scenes to which it led, those sweet wander- 
ings through its enchanted bowers, those bright mornings, 
so full of expectation that was never baulked, those soft 
eyes, so redolent of tenderness that could never cease ; when 
from the bright, and glowing, and gentle scenes his memory 
conjured up, and all the transport and the thrill that sur- 
rounded them like an atmosphere of love, he turned to his 
shattered and broken-hearted self, the rigid heaven above, 
and what seemed to his perhaps unwise and ungratefiil 
spirit, the mechanical sympathy and common-place affection 
of his companions, it was as if he had wakened from some 
too vivid and too glorious dream, or as if he had fellen 
from some brighter and more favoured planet upon otit 
cold, dull earth. 

And yet it would seem the roof of Armine Place pro- 
tected a family that might yield to few in the beauty and 
engaging qualities of its inmates, their happy accomplish- 
ments, their kind and cordial hearts. And all were de- 
voted to him. It was on him alone the noble spirit of his 
father dwelt still with pride and joy : it was to soothe and 
gratify him that his charming mother exerted all her 
graceful care and all her engaging gifts. It was for him, 
and his sake, the generous heart of his cousin had sub- 
mitted to mortification without a murmur, or indulged her 
unhappiness only in soHtude; and it was for him iha* 
Glastonbury exercised a devotion that might alone induce 
a man to think with complacency both of his species and. 
himself. But the heart, the heart, the jealous and despotic 
heart ! It rejects all substitutes, it spurns all compromise^-, 
and it will have its purpose or it will break. 







The Marquis of Montfort was the grandson of that noble- 
man who had been Glastonbury's earliest patron. The old 
dnke had been dead some years ; his son had succeeded to his 
title, and Digby, that youth whom the reader may recollect 
was about the same age as. Ferdinand Armine, and was his 
companion during the happy week in London which pre- 
ceded his first military visit to the Mediterranean, now bore 
the second title of the family. 

The young marquis was an excellent speounen of a class 

inferior in talents, intelligence, and accomplishments, in 

publio spirit and in private virtues, to none in the world, 

the English nobiliiy. His complete education had been 

careMly conducted ; and although his religious creed, for 

it mil be remembered he was a Catholic, had deprived him 

of tiiie advantage of matriculating at an English university, 

he zeal of an able and learned tutor, and the resources of 

Gfi^unan Alma Mater, had afforded every opportunity for 

© development of his considerable talents. Nature had 

ished upon hiTn other gifts besides his distinguished in- 

xgence and his amiable temper : his personal beauty was 

^arkable, and his natural grace was not less evident than 

Qiany acquired accomplishments. 


On quitting the Universiirjr of Bonn, Lord Montfort had 
passed several years on the continent of Enrope, and had 
visited and resided at most of its courts and capitals, aa 
admired and cherished guest ; for, debarred at the period 
of our story firom occup3nng the seat of his ancestors in the 
senate, his native country offered no very urgent claims 
upon his presence. He had ultimately fixed upon Borne as 
his principal residence, for he was devoted to the arts, and 
in his palace were collected some of the rarest specimens of 
ancient and modem invention. 

At Pisa, Lord Montfort had made the acquaintance of 
Mr. Temple, who was residing in that city for the benefit 
of his daughter's health, who, it was feared by her phy- 
sicians, was in a decline. I say the acquaintance of Mr. 
Temple ; for Lord Montfort was aware of the existence of 
his daughter only by the occasional mention of her name, 
-as Miss Temple was never seen. The agreeable manners, 
varied information, and accomplished mind of Mr. Temple, 
had attracted and won the attention of the young nobleman, 
who shrank in general from the travelling English, and all 
their arrogant ignorance. Mr. Temple was in turn equally 
pleased with a companion alike refined, amiable, and en- 
lightened ; and their acquaintance would have ripened into 
intimacy, had not the illness of Henrietta and her repug- 
nance to see a third person, and the unwillingness of her 
father that she should be alone, ofiered in some degree ahar 
to its cultivation. 

Yet Henrietta was glad that her father had found a friend 
and was amused, and impressed upon him not to think of 
her, but to accept Lord Montfort* s invitations to his villa* 
But Mr. Temple invariably declined them. 

* I am always uneasy when I am away from you, dearest,* 
eaid Mi\ Temple ; * I wish you would go about a little. 
Believe me, it is not for myself that I make the suggestion, 
but I am sure you would derive benefit from, the exertion. 


I wish you would go with me and see Lord Montfort's 
villa. There would be no one there but himself. He would 
not in the least' annoy you, he is so quiet ; and he and I 
could stroll about and look at the busts and talk to each 
other. You would hardly know he was present, he is such 
a very quiet person.' 

Henrietta shook her head; and Mr. Temple could not 
urge the request. 

Fate, however, had decided that Lord Montfort and 
Henrietta Temple should become acquainted. She had 
more than once expressed a wish to see the Campo Santo ; 
it was almost the only wish that she had expressed since she 
left England. Her father, pleased to find that anything 
could interest her, was in the habit of reminding her of this 
desire, and suggesting that she should gratify it. But there 
was ever an excuse for procrastination. When the hour of 
exertion came, she would say, with a faint smile, * Not to- 
day, dearest papa ;' and then, arranging her shawl, as if 
even in this soft clime she shivered, composed herself upon 
that sofa which now she scarcely ever quitted. 

And this was Henrietta Temple ! That gay and glorious 
being, so foil of graceful power and beautifol energy, that 
seemed bom for a throne, and to command a nation of 
adoring subjects! What are those political revolutions, 
whose strange and mighty vicissitudes we are ever dilating 
on, compared with the moral mutations that are passing 
daily under our own eye ; uprooting the hearts of families,, 
shattering to pieces domestic circles, scattering to the 
winds the plans and prospects of a generation, and blasting 
as with a mildew the ripening harvest of long cherished 
affection ! 

*It is here that I would be buried,' said Henrietta 

They were standing, the father and the daughter, in the 
Campo Santo. She had been gayer that morning; her 


father had seized a happy moment, and she had gone forth, 
to visit the dead. 

That vast and cloistered cemetery was silent and nndis- 
turbed ; not a hnman being was there, save themselves and 
the keeper. The snn shone brightly on the austere and 
ancient frescoes, and Henrietta stood opposite that beantifcil 
sarcophagus, that seemed prepared and fitting to receive 
her destined ashes. 

* It is here that I would be buried,' said she. 

Her father almost unconsciously turned his head to gaze 
upon the countenance of his daughter, to see if there were 
indeed reason that she should talk of death. That conn- 
tenance was changed since lihe moment we first feebly 
attempted to picture it. That flashing eye had lost some- 
thing of its brilliancy, that superb form something of its 
roundness and its stag-like state ; the crimson glory of that 
mantling cheek had faded like the fading eve ; and yet it 
might be thought, it might be suffering, perhaps, the antici- 
pation of approaching death, and as it were the imaginary 
contact with a serener existence, but certainly there was a 
more spiritual expression diffused over the whole appear- 
ance of Henrietta Temple, and which by many might be 
preferred even to that more lively and glowing beaujiy 
which, in her happier hours, made her the very queen of 
flowers and sunshine. 

*It is strange, dear papa,' she continued, Hhat my first 
visit should be to a cemetery.' 

At this moment their attention was attraoted by the 
sound of the distant gates of the cemetery opening, and 
several persons soon entered. This party consisted of 
some of the authorities of the city and some porters, bear- 
ing on a slab of verd antique a magnificent cinerary vase, 
that was about to be placed in the Campo. In reply to 
his enquiries, Mr. Temple learned that the vase had 
been recently excavated in Catania, and that it had been 


purcliased and presented to the Campo by the Marqnis of 
Montfort. Henrietta would have hurried her father away, 
but with all her haste they had not reached the gates 
before Lord Montfort appeared. 

Mr. Temple found it impossible, although Henrietta 
pressed his arm in token of disapprobation, not to present 
Lord Montfort to his daughter. He then admired his lord- 
ship's urn, and then his lordship requested that he might 
have the pleasure of showing it to them himself. They 
turned ; Lord Montfort explained to them its rarity, and 
pointed out to them its beauiy. His voice was soft and 
low, his manner simple but rather reserved. While he 
paid that deference to Henrietta which her sex demanded, 
he addressed himself chiefly to her fiither. She was not 
half so much annoyed as she had imagined ; she agreed 
with her father that he was a very quiet Z. ; she wXen 
a little interested by his conversation, which was refined 
and elegant ; and she was pleased that he did not seem to 
require her to play any part in the discourse, but appeared 
quite content in being her father's Mend. Lord Mont- 
fort seemed to be attached to her father, and to appreciate 
him. And this was always a recoipmendation to Henrietta 

The cinerary urn led to a little controversy between Mr. 
Temple and his Mend ; and Lord Montfort wished that Mr. 
Temple would some day call on him at his house in the 
Lung' Amo, and he would show him some specimens which 
he thought might influence his opinion. * I hardly dare to 
ask you to come now,' said his lordship, looking at Miss 
Temple ; * and yet Miss Temple might like to rest.' 

It was evident to Henrietta that her father would be 
pleased to go, and yet that he was about to refuse for her 
sake. She could not bear that he should be deprived of so 
much and such refined amusement, and be doomed to an 
uninteresting morning at home, merely to gratify her humour* 



She tried to speak, but could not at first command li< 
voice ; at length she expressed her wish that Mr.'Tem] 
should avail himself of the invitation. Lord Montfc 
bowed lowly, Mr. Temple seemed gratified, and they -:5 
turned together and quitted the cemetery. 

As they walked along to the house, conversation ^^ 
not flag. Lord Montfort expressed his admiration of PS^ i 

* Silence and art are two great charms,* said his lordshi;^^. 

At length they arrived at his palace. A vener^l^; 
Italian received them. They passed through a vast hall^ fo 
which were statues, ascended a magnificent double st:air. 
case, and entered a range of saloons. One of them was 
furnished with more attention to comfort than an ItaL'an 
cares for, and herein was the cabinet of urns and vases his 
lordship had mentioned. 

* This is little more than a barrack,' said Lord Montfort; 
' but I can find a sofa for Miss Temple.' So saying, he 
arranged with great care the cushions of the couch, and, 
when she seated herself, placed a footstool near her. *1 
wish you would allow me some day to welcome yon at 
Rome,' said the young marquis. * It is there that I indeed 

Lord Montfort and Mr. Temple examined the contents 
of the cabinet. There was one vase which Mr. Temple 
greatly admired for the elegance of its form. His host 
immediately brought it and placed it on a small pedestal 
near Miss Temple. Yet he scarcely addressed himself to 
her, and Henrietta experienced none of that troublesome 
attention from which, in the present state of her health and 
mind, she shrank. While Mr. Temple was interested with 
his pursuit. Lord Montfort went to a small cabinet opposite, 
and brought forth a curious casket of antique gems. 

* Perhaps,' he said, placing it by Miss Temple, * the con- 
tents of this casket might amuse you ;' and he walked away 
to her father. 


In tlio course of an hour a servant brought in some fruits 
and wine. 

* The grapes are from my villa,' said Lord Montfort. * I 
ventured to order them, because I have heard their salutary 
effects have been marvellous. . Besides, at this season, even 
in Italy they are rare. At least you cannot accuse me of 
prescribing a disagreeable remedy,' he added with a slight 
smile, as he handed a plate to Miss Temple. She moved 
to receive them. Her cushions slipped from behind her. 
Lord Montfort immediately arranged them with skill and 
care. He was so kind that she really wished to thank him ; 
but before she could utter a word he was again conversing 
with her father. 

At length Mr. Temple indicated his intention to retire, 
aad spoke to his daughter. 

*This has been a great exertion for you, Henrietta,' he 
said ; * this has indeed been a busy day.' 

' I am not wearied ; and we have been much pleased.' It 
was tho firmest tone in which she had spoken for a long 
time. There was something in her manner which recalled 
to Mr. Temple her vanished animation. The affectionate 
father looked for a moment happy. Tho sweet music of 
these simple words dwelt on his ear. 

He went forwai'd and assisted Henrietta to rise. She 
(dosed the casket with care, and delivered it herself to her 
Qonsiderate host. Mr. Temple bade him adieu ; Henrietta 
bowed, and nearly extended her hand. Lord Montfort 
ittended them to the gate ; a carriage was waiting there. 

* Ah ! we have kept your lordship at home,' said Mr. 

* I took the liberty of ordering the carriage for Miss 
Temple,' he replied. * I feel a little responsible for her kind 
ezertion to-day.' 





* And how do you like my friend, Henrietta ? ' said M: 
Temple, as they drove home. 

* I like your friend much, papa. He is quite as quiet e 
you said ; he is almost the only person I have seen sinc=^ 
I quitted England who has not jarred my nerves. I fe 
quite sorry that I had so long prevented you both fro: 
cultivating each other's acquaintance. He does not inte^ 
fere with me in the least.' 

* I wish I had asked him to look in upon us in the eve: 
ing,' said Mr. Temple, rather enquiringly. 

*Not to-day,' said Henrietta. 'Another day, dearc 

The next day Lord Montfort sent a note to Mr. 
to enquire afber his daughter, and to impress upon him 
importance of her eating his grapes. His servant leffc 
basket. The rest of the note was about cinerary urns. 
Temple, while he thanked him, assured him of the pleasixr© 
it would give both his daughter and himself to see him in 
the evening. This was the first invitation to his honse 
that Mr. Temple had ventured to give him, though they liAd 
now known each other some time. 

In the evening Lord Montfort appeared. Henrietta was 
lying on her sofa, and her father would not let her rise. 
Lord Montfort had brought Mr. Temple some English 
journals, which he had received from Leghorn. • The gentle- 
men talked a little on foreign politics ; and discussed the 
character of several of the most celebrated foreign ministers- 
Lord Montfort gave an account of his visit to Prince Ester-' 
hazy. Henrietta was amused. German politics and sociefcy 
led to German literature. Lord Montfort, on this subject 


seemed completely informed. Hemcietta could not re&ain 
fix)ni joining in a conversation for which she was fully 
qualified. She happened to deplore her want of books. 
Lord Montfort had a library ; but it was at Bome : no 
matter ; it seemed that he thought nothing of sending to 
Biome. He made a note very quietly of some books that 
Henrietta expressed a wish to see, and begged^that Mr. 
Temple would send the memorandum to his servant. 

* But surely to-morrow will do,' said Mr. Temple. ' Borne 
is too far to send to this evening.' 

'That is an additional reason for instant departure,' said 
his lordship calmly. 

Mr. Temple summoned a servant. 

* Send this note to my house,' said his lordship. * My 
courier will bring us the books in four days,' he added, 
turning to Miss Temple. ' I am sorry you should have to 
wait, but at Pisa I really have nothing.' 

From this day Lord Montfort passed every evening at 
Mr. Temple's house. His arrival never disturbed Miss 
Temple ; she remained on the sofa. If she spoke to him 
lie was always ready to converse with her, yet he never 
obtruded his society. He seemed perfectly contented with 
the company of her father. Yet with all this calmness and 
reseirve, there was no air of affected indifference, no intoler- 
able nonchalance ; he was always attentive, always con- 
siderate, often kind. However apparently engaged with 
her father, it seemed that his vigilance anticipated all her 
wants. K she moved, he was at her side ; if she required 
anything, it would appear that he read her thoughts, for it 
was always offered. She found her sofa arranged as if by 
magic. And if a shawl were for a moment missing, Loird 
Montfort always knew where it had been placed. In the 
meantime, every morning brought something for the amuse- 
ment of Mr. Temple and his daughter ; books, prints, draw- 
ings, newspapers, journals of all countries, and caricatures 


from Paris and London, were mingled with engravings 
Henrietta's favourite Campo Santo. 

One evening Mr. Temple and his guest were speaking q 
a celebrated Professor of the University. Lord Montfc^^.^ 
described his extraordinary acquirements and discoverves 
and his rare simplicity. He was one of those eccentn'c 
geniuses that are sometimes found in decayed cities w^tb 
ancient institutions of learning. Henrietta was interesfed 
in his description. Almost without thought she expressed 
a wish to see him. 

* He shall come to-morrow/ said Lord Montfort, * if you 
please. Believe me,' he added, in a tone of great kindness, 
* ihat if you could prevail upon yourself to cultivate Italian 
society a little, it would repay you.* 

The Professor was brought. Miss Temple was mnch 
entertained. In a few days he came again, and introdnced 
a friend scarcely less distinguished. The society was so 
easy, that even Henrietta found it no burthen. She 
remained upon her sofa ; the gentlemen drank their coffee 
and conversed. One morning Lord Montfort had prevailed 
upon her to visit the studio of a celebrated sculptor. Th© 
artist was full of enthusiasm for his pursuit, and showea- 
them with pride his great work, a Diana that might hav^ 
made one envy Endymion. The sculptor declared it wa-^ 
the perfect resemblance of Miss Temple, and appealed t^ 
her father. Mr. Temple could not deny the striking lik^-" 
ness. Miss Temple smiled ; she looked almost herself agaic*- 5 
even the reserved Lord Montfort was in raptures. 

* Oh ! it is very like,' said his lordship. * Yes ! bow ^^ 
is exactly like. Miss Temple does not often smile ; but no"*^ 
one would believe she really was the model.* 

They were bidding the sculptor farewell. 

* Do you like him ? * whispered Lord Montfort of Mi-^^ 

* Extremely ; he is full of ideas.' 


* Shall I ask him to come to you this evening ? ' 

* Yes, do!' 

And so it turned out that in time Henrietta found herself 
the centre of a little circle of eminent and accomplished 
men. Her health improved as she brooded less over her 
sorrows. It gratified her to witness the pleasure of her 
Father. She was not always on her sofa now. Lord 
Montfort had sent her an English chair, which suited her 

They even began to take drives with him in the country 
an hour or so before sunset. The country around Pisa is 
rich as well as picturesque ; and their companion always 
contrived that there should be an object in their brief 
excursions. He spoke, too, the dialect of the country ; and 
they paid, under his auspices, a visit to a Tuscan farmer. 
All this was agreeable ; even Henrietta was persuaded 
that it was better than staying at home. The variety of 
pleasing objects diverted her mind in spite of herself. She 
iad some duties to perform in this world yet remaining. 
There was her father : her father who had been so devoted 
^ lier, who had never uttered a single reproach to her for 
^ her faults and follies, and who, in her hour of tribu- 
i-tiion, had clung to her with such fidelity. Was it not 
^^acie source of satisfaction to see him again comparatively 
^I>"py? How selfish for her to mar this graceful and 
■^'xccent enjoyment ! She exerted herself to contribute to 
^^ amusement of her father and his kind friend, as well as 
^ ehare it. The colour returned a little to her cheek ; 
^Haetmies she burst for a moment into something like 
^'^ old gaiety ; and though these ebullitions were often 
>llowed by a gloom and moodiness, against which she 
>Uiid it in vain to contend, still, on the whole, the change 
^^ the better, was decided, and Mr. Temple yet hoped that 
'■^ time his sight might again be blessed and his life iUus- 
^'^ted by his own brilliant Henrietta. 




One delicious morning, remarkable even in the sonth, 
Lord Montfort called upon them in hifi carriage, and 
proposed a little excursion. Mr. Temple looked at his 
daughter, and was charmed that Henrietta consented. She 
rose from her seat, indeed, with unwonted animation, and 
the three friends had soon quitted the citj and entered its 
agreeable environs. 

*It was wise to pass the winter in Italy,' said Lord 
Montfort, * but to see Tuscany in perfection I should choose 
the autumn. I know nothing more picturesque than the 
carts laden with grapes, and drawn by milk-white steers.* 
They drove gaily along at the foot of green hills, crowned 
ever and anon by a convent or a beautiful stone-pine. The 
landscape attracted the admiration of Miss Temple. A 
palladian villa rose from the bosom of a gentle elevation, 
crowned with these picturesque trees. A broad terrace of 
marble extended in front of the villa^ on which were ranged 
orange trees. On either side spread an olive-grove. The 
sky was without a cloud, and deeply blue ; bright beams of 
the sun illuminated the building. The road had wound so 
curiously into this last branch of the Appenines, that th^ 
party found themselves in a circus of hills, clothed witl^ 
Spanish chestnuts and olive trees, from which there wa»^ 
apparently no outlet. A soft breeze, which it was eviden."^ 
had passed over the wild flowers of the mountains, refr^sheo. 
and charmed their senses. 

' Could you believe we were only two hours' drive frotxi 
a city ? ' said Lord Montfort. 

' Indeed,' said Henrietta, * if there be peace in this world, 


vovld think that the dweller in that beautiful Tilla 

ed it.' 

e has little to disturb him/ said Lord Montfort : ' thanks 

J destiny and his temper.' 

believe we make our miseries,' said Henrietta, with 

h. * After all, nature always offers us consolation* 

Nho lives here ? ' 

sometimes steal to this spot,' replied his lordship. 

h! this, tten, is your viUa? Ah! you have surprised 

only aimed to amuse you.' 

bu are very kind, Lord Montfort,' said Mr. Temple ; 

we owe you much.' 

ey stopped, they ascended the terrace, they entered 

ilia. A few rooms only were famished, but their 

trance indicated the taste and pursuits of its occupier. 

3 and books were scattered about ; a table was covered 

the implements of art ; and the principal apartment 

id into an English garden. 

his is one of my native tastes,' said Lord Montfort, 

i will, I think, never desert me.' 

je memory of Henrietta was recalled to the flowers of 

9 and of Arm in e. Amid all the sweets and sunshine 

coked sad. She walked away &om her companions ; 

eated herself on the terrace ; her eyes were suffused 

tears. Lord Montfort took the arm of Mr. Temple,, 

led him away to a bust of Germanicus. 

let me show it to Henrietta,' said Mr. Temple ; * I must 

. her.' 

frd Montfort laid his hand gently on his companion. 

emotion of Henrietta had not escaped his quick eye. 

Obs Temple has made a great exertion,' he said. * Do 

ihink me pedantic, but I am something of a physician. 

7e long perceived that, although Miss Temple should 

oinsed, she must sometimes be left alone.' 


Mr. Temple looked at his companion, but the counten- 
ance of Lord Montfort was inscrutable. His lordship 
offered him a medal and then opened a portfolio of Marc 

* These are very rare/ said Lord Montfort ; * I bring them 
into the country with me, for really at Borne there is no 
time to study them. By the bye, I have a plan,' continued 
his lordship, in a somewhat hesitating tone ; ' I wish I could 
induce you and Miss Temple to visit me at Borne.' 

Mr. Temple shm gged his shoulders, and sighed. 

' I feel confident that a residence at Borne would benefit 
Miss Temple,' said his lordship, in a voice a little less calm 
than usual. ' There is much to see, and I would take care 
that she should see it in a manner which would not exhaust 
her. It is the most delightful climate, too, at this period. 
The sun shines here to-day, but the air of these hills at 
this season is sometimes treacherous. A calm life, with a 
variety of objects, is what she requires. Pisa is cahn, but 
for her it is too dulL Believe me, there is something 
in the blended refinement and interest of Bome that she 
would find exceedingly beneficiaL She would see no oue 
but ourselves; society shall be at her command if she 
desire it.' 

*My dear lord,' said Mr. Temple, *I thank you from 
the bottom of my heart for all your considerate sympathy ; 
but I cannot flatter myself that Henrietta could avail 
herself of your really friendly offer. My daughter is a 
great invalid. She ' 

But here Miss Temple joined them. 

* We have a relic of a delicate temple here,' said Lord 
Montfort, directing her gaze to another window. * Ton see 
it now to advantage ; the colunms glitter in the sun- 
There, perhaps, was worshipped some wood-nymph, or some 

The first classic mia thai she had yet beheld attracted 



ention of Miss Temple. It was not far, and she 

[ to the proposition of Lord Montfort to visit it. 

ttle ramble was delightful. The novelty and the 

of the object greatly interested her. It was charm- 

> to view it under the auspices of a guide so full of 

btion and feeling. 

!' said Lord Montfort, *if I might only be your 

B at Home!' 

at say you, Henrietta ? ' said Mr. Temple, with a 

' Shall we go to Rome ? ' 

proposition did not alarm Miss Temple as much as 
ler anticipated. Lord Montfort pressed the sugges- 
bh delicacy ; he hinted at some expedients by which 
mej might be rendered not very laborious. But as 

not reply, his lordship did not press the subject ; 
itly pleased, perhaps, that she had not met it with 
ediate and decided negative. 

Q they returned to the villa they found a collation 
d for them worthy of so elegant an abode. In his 
p- of a host. Lord Montfort departed a little from 
cid and even constrained demeanour which generally 
erised him. His maimer was gay and flowing ; and 
•ed out a goblet of Monte Pulciano and presented it 

L must pour a libation,' he said, * to the nymph of 





a week after this visit to the villa, Mr. Temple and 
ighter were absolutely induced to accompany Lord 
rt to Rome. It is impossible to do justice to the 



tender soKcitude with wMcli lie made all the arrangements 
for the journey. Wherever they halted they fonnd prepare, 
tions for their reception ; and so admirably had everytliiiig 
been concerted, that Miss Temple at length fonnd herself in 
the Eternal City with almost as little fatigue as she had 
reached the Tuscan villa. 

The palace of Lord Montfort was in the most distinguished 
quarter of the city, and situate in the midst of vast gardens 
full of walls of laurel, arches of ilex, and fountains of Kons. 
They arrived at twilight, and the shadowy hour lent even 
additional space to the huge halls and galleries. Yet in the 
suite of rooms intended for Mr. Temple and his daughter, 
every source of comfort seemed to have been collected. The 
marble floors were covered with Indian mats and carpets, 
the windows were well secured from the air which might 
have proved fatal to an invalid, while every species of chair 
and couch, and sofa, courted the languid or capricious form 
of Miss Temple, and she was even favoured with an English 
stove, and guarded by an Indian screen. The apartments 
were supplied with every book which it could have been 
supposed might amuse her ; there were guitars of the city 
and of Florence, and even an English piano ; a library of 
the choicest music ; and all the materials of art. The air of 
elegance and cheerful comfort that pervaded these apart- 
ments, so unusual in this land, the bright blaze of the fire, 
even the pleasant wax-lights, all cotnbined to deprive the 
moment of that feeling of gloom and exhaustion which 
attends an arrival at a strange place at a late hour, and 
Henrietta looked around her, and almost fancied she was 
once more at Ducie. Lord Montfort introduced his fellow- 
travellers to their apartments, presented to them the servant 
who was to assume the management of their little household, 
and then reminding them of their mutual promises that 
they were to be entirely their own masters, and not trouble 
themselves about him any more than if they were at Pisa, 


lie sliook them both by the hand, and bade them good- 

It must be confessed that the acquaintance of Lord Mont- 
fort had afforded consolation to Henrietta Temple. It was 
impossible to be insensible to the sympathy and solicitude 
of one so highly gifted and so very amiable. Nor should it 
be denied that this homage, from one of his distinguished 
rank, was entirely without its charm. To find ourselves, 
when deceived and deserted, unexpectedly an object of 
regard and consideration, will bring balm to most bosoms ; 
but to attract in such a situation the friendship of an indi- 
vidual whose deferential notice under any circumstances 
must be flattering, and to be admired by one whom all 
admire, these are accidents of fortune which few could ven- 
ture to despise. And Henrietta had now few opportunities 
to brood over the past ; a stream of beautifnl and sublime 
objects passed unceasingly before her vision. Her lively 
and refined taste, and her highly cultui*ed mind, could not 
refrain from responding to these glorious spectacles. She 
saw before her all that she had long read of, all that she had 
long mused over. Her mind became each day more serene 
and harmomous as she gazed on these ideal creations, and 
dwelt on their beautifdl repose. Her companion, too, exerted 
every art to prevent these amusements from degenerating 
into &tiguing expeditions. The Vatican was open to Lord 
Montfort when it was open to none others. Short visits, but 
munerous ones, was his system. Sometimes they entered 
merely to see a statue or a picture they were reading or 
conversing about the preceding eve ; and then they repaired 
to some modem studio, where their entrance always made 
tlie scnlptor's eyes sparkle. At dinner there was always 
some distinguished guest whom Henrietta wished to see ; 
and as she thoroughly understood the language, and spoke 
it with fluency and grace, she was tempted to enter into 
conversations, where all seemed delighted that she played 


her part. Sometimes, indeed, Henrietta would fly to her 
chamber to sigh, but suddenly the palace resounded with 
tones of the finest harmony, or the human voice, with its 
most felicitous skill, stole upon her from the distant galleries. 
Although Lord Montfort was not himself a musician, and 
his voice could not pour forth those fatal sounds that had 
ravished her soul from the lips of Ferdinand Armine, he was 
well acquainted with the magic of music ; and while he hated 
a formal concert, the most eminent performers were often at 
hand in his palace, to contribute at the fitting moment to 
the delight of his guests. Who could withstand the soft 
influence of a life so elegant and serene, or refuse to yield 
up the spirit to its gentle excitement and its mild distrac- 
tion ? The colour returned to Henrietta's cheek and the 
lustre to her languid eye : her form regained its airy spring 
of health ; the sunshine of her soiile burst forth once more. 
It would have been impossible for an indifferent person 
not to perceive that Lord Montfort witnessed these changes 
with feelings of no slight emotion. Perhaps he prided him- 
self upon his skill as a physician, but he certainly watched 
the apparent convalescence of his firiend's daughter with 
zealous interest. And yet Henrietta herself was not aware 
that Lord Montfort*s demeanour to her differed in anj 
degree finom what it was at Pisa. She had never been alone 
with him in her life ; she certainly spoke more to him than 
she uschI, but then, she spoke more to everybody ; and Lord 
Montfort certainly seemed to think of nothing but her plea- 
sure and convenience and comfort ; but he did and said 
everything so quietly, that all this Vinr lnAgn and soUdtadB 
apivared to bo the habitual impulse of his generous mAoK, 
Ho cortainly was more intimate, much more intimate^ tban 
duriuir tho first week of their acquaintance, hut acaicdj 
more kiuvi : for she remembered he had airanged heraf^ _. 
tho voTv firji day they met, though he did not eren remain I jf 
to Kjcoivo her tKAT^V^; 


One day a discussion rose abont Italian society between 
Mr. Temple and his host. His lordship was a great admirer 
of the domestic character and private life of the Italians. 
He maintained that there was no existing people who more 
completely fulfilled the social duties than this much scan- 
dalised nation, respecting whom so many silly prejudices 
are entertained by the English, whose travelling fellow- 
countrymen, by the bye, seldom enter into any society but 
that tainted circle that must exist in all capitals. 

* You have no idea,' he said, turning to Henrietta, * what 
amiable and accomplished people are the better order of 
Italians. I wish you would let me light up this dark house 
some night, and give you an Italian party.' 

* I should like it very much,' said Mr. Temple. 
Whenever Henrietta did not enter her negative Lord 

Montfort always implied her assent, and it was resolved that 
the Italian party should be given. 

AU the best famiKes in Rome were present, and not a 
single English person. There were some, perhaps, whom 
Lord Montfort might have wished to have invited, but Miss 
Temple had chanced to express a wish that no English might 
be there, and he instantly acted upon her suggestion. 

The palace was magnificently illuminated. Henrietta had 

scarcely seen before its splendid treasures of art. Lord 

Montfort, in answer to her curiosity, had always playfully 

depreciated them, and said that they must be lefb for rainy 

days. The most splendid pictures and long rows of graceful 

or solemn statues were suddenly revealed to her ; rooms and 

gJifleries were opened that had never been observed before ; 

on. all sides cabinets of vases, groups of imperial busts, rare 

fcnmzes, and vivid masses of tesselated pavement. Over all 

' those choice and beautiftd objects a clear yet soft light was 

JiHiiBe^ and Henrietta never recollected a spectacle more 

^^xnplete and effective. 

HTfaese rooms and galleries were soon filled with guests, 


and Henrietta conld not be insensible to the graceM and 
engaging dignity with which Lord Montfort received the 
Roman world of fashion. That constraint which at first she 
had attributed to reserve, bnt which of late she had ascribed 
to modesty, now entirely quitted him. Frank, yet always 
dignified, smiling, apt, and ever felicitoos, it seemed that 
he had a pleasing word for every ear, and a particnlar smile 
for every fieice. She stood at some distance leaning on her 
father's arm, and watching him. Suddenly he turned and 
looked around. It was they whom he wished to catch. He 
came up to Henrietta and said, ' I wish to introduce yon to 
the Princess . She is an old lady^ but of the first dis- 
tinction here. I would not ask this favour of you unless I 
thought you would be pleased.' 

Henrietta could not refuse his request. Lord Montfort 
presented her and her father to the princess, the most agree- 
able and important person in Bome ; and having now pro- 
vided for their immediate amusement, he had time to attend 
to his guests in generaL An admirable concert now, in some 
degree, hushed the general conversation. The voices of the 
most beautiful women in Home echoed in those apartments. 
When the music ceased, the guests wandered about the 
galleries, and at length the principal saloons were filled with 
dancers. Lord Montfort approached Miss Temple. * There 
is one room in the palace you have never yet visited,* he said, 
' my tribune ; 'tis open to-night for the first time.' 

Henrietta accepted his profiered arm. ' And how do yon 
like the princess ? ' he said, as they walked along. ' It is 
agreeable to live in a country where your guests amnse 

At the end of the principal gallery, Henrietta perceived 
an open door which admitted them into a smaQ octagon 
chamber, of Ionic architecture. The walls were not hung 
with pictures, and one work of art alone solicited tiicar 
attention. Elevated on a pedestal of porphyry, surrounded 


ij a rail of bronze arrows of the lightest workmansliip, was 
hat statue of Diana which they had so much admired at 
*isa- The cheek, by an ancient process, the secret of which 
as been recently regained at Rome, was tinted with a deli- 
ate glow. 

f Do you approve of it ? ' said Lor^ Montfort to the ad- 
Qiring Henrietta. * Ah, dearest Miss Temple,' he continued, 
it is my happiness that the rose has also returned to a 
Edrer cheek than this.' 



The reader will not perhaps be much surprised that the 
^iarqnis of Montfort soon became the declared admirer of 
\Sass Temple. He made the important declaration after a 
retry different fashion from the unhappy Ferdinand Armiue : 
le made it to the lady's father. Long persuaded that Miss 
Temple's illness had its origin in the mind, and believing 
ihat in that case the indisposition of the young lady had 
probably arisen, from one cause or another, in the disap- 
pointment of her affections, Lord Montfort resolved to spare 
ler feelings, unprepared, the pain of a personal appeal. The 
jeauty, the talent, the engaging disposition, and the languid 
nelancholy of Miss Temple, had excited his admiration and 
xLty, and had finally won a heart capable of deep affections, 
)ut gifted with great self-control. He did not conceal from 
iir. Temple the conviction that impelled him to the course 
irliioh he had thought proper to pursue, and this delicate 
induct relieved Mr. Temple greatly from the unavoidable 
onbarrassment of his position. Mr. Temple contented himself 
■nth communicating to Lord Montfort, that his daughter had 
ndeed entered into an engagement with one who was not 

u 2 


worthy of her affectioiis, and that the moment her father had 
been convinced of the character of the individnal, he liad 
quitted England with his daughter. He expressed his nnquali- 
fied approbation of the overture of Lord Montfort, to whom 
he was indeed sincerely attached, and which gratified all 
those worldly feelings from which Mr. Temple was naturally 
not exempt. In such an alliance Mr. Temple recognised the 
only mode by which his daughter's complete recovery could 
be secured. Lord Montfort in himself offered everything 
which it would seem that the reasonable fancy of woman could 
desire. He was young, handsome, amiable, accomplished, 
sincere, and exceedingly clever ; while, at the same time, as 
Mr. Temple was well aware, his great position would insure 
that reasonable gratification of vanity from which none are 
free, which is a fertile source of happiness, and which would, 
at all times, subdue any bitter recollections which might 
occasionally arise to cloud the retrospect of his daughter. 

It was Mr. Temple, who, exerting all the arts of his 
abandoned profession, now indulging in intimations and 
now in panegyric, conveying to his daughter, with admir- 
able skill, how much the intimate acquaintance with Lord 
Montfort contributed to his happiness, gradually fanning 
the feeling of gratitude to so kind a friend, which aheady 
had been excited in his daughter's heart, into one of zealous 
regard, and finally seizing his opportunity with practised 
felicity, it was Mr. Temple who at length ventured to com- 
municate to his daughter the overture which had been con- 
fided to him. 

Henrietta shook her head. 

* I have too great a regard for Lord Montfort to accede 
to his wishes,' said Miss Temple. * He deserves something 
better than a bruised spirit, if not a broken heart.' 

' But, my dearest Henrietta, you really take a wrong, an 
impracticable view of affairs. Lord Montfort must be the 
best judge of what will contribute to his own happiness.' 


Lord Montfort is acting nnder a delusion,' replied Miss 

iple. * If lie knew all that had occurred he would shrink 

1 blending his life with mine.' 

[iord Montfoi*t knows everything,' said the father, * that 

verything he should know.' 

[ndeed ! ' said M^ss Temple. * I wonder he does not 

: upon me with contempt ; at the least, with pity.' 

Se loves you, Henrietta,' said her father. 

kh. ! love, love, love ! name not love to me. No, Lord 

itfort cannot love me. It is not love that he feels.' 

You have gained his heart, and he offers you his hand. 

not these proofs of love ? ' 

jrenerous, good young man ! ' exclaimed Henrietta ; 

espect, I admire him ; I might have loved him. But it 

>o late.' 

My beloved daughter, oh 1 do not say so ! For my sake, 

lot say so,' exclaimed Mr. Temple. * I have no wish, I 

3 bad no wish, my child, hut for your happiness. Lean 

a. your father, listen to him, be guided by his advice. 

i Montfort possesses every qualiiy which can contribute 

le happiness of woman. A man so rarely gifted I never 

, There is not a woman in the world, however exalted 

rank, however admirable her beauty, however gifted 

being, who might not feel happy and honoured in the 

lage of such a man. Believe me, my dearest daughter, 

i this is an union which must lead to happiness. Indeed, 

9 it to occur, I could die content. I should have no 

e cares, no more hopes. All would then have happened 

i the most sanguine parent, eyen with such a child as 

, could wish or imagine. "We should be so happy ! For 

sake, for my sake, for all our sakes, dearest Henrietta, 

it bis wish. Believe me, believe me, he is indeed worthy 


[ am not worthy of him,' said Henrietta, in a melan- 

y voice. 



' Ah, Henrietta, who is like you ! ' exclaimed the fond and 
excited father. 

At this moment a servant annonnced that Lord Montfort 
would, with their permission, wait upon them. Henrietta 
seemed plunged in thought. Suddenly she said, ' I caimot 
rest until this is settled. Papa, leaye me with him a few 
moments alone.' Mr. Temple retired. 

A fednt hlush rose to the cheek of her visitor when he 
perceived that Miss Temple was alone. He seated himself 
at her side, hut he was unusuAllj constrained. 

*My dear Lord Montfort,' said Miss Temple, calmly, *I 
have to speak upon a painful suhject^ but I have undergone 
so much suffering, that I shall not shrink from this. Papa 
has informed me this morning that you have been pleased 
to pay me the highest compHment that a man can paj a 
woman. I wish to thank you for it. I wish to acknowledge 
it in terms the strongest and the warmest I can use. I am 
sensible of the honour, the high honour that yon have in- 
tended me. It is indeed an honour of which any woman 
might be proud. You have offered me a heart of which I 
know the worth. No one can appreciate the value of yonr 
character better than myself. I do justice, full justice^ 
to your virtues, your accomplishments, your commanding 
talents, and your generous soul. Except my £a>ther, tliere 
is no one who holds so high a place in my affection as your- 
self. You have been my kind and true Mend ; and a kind 
and true friendship, fidthfal and sincere, I return you. 
More than friends we never can be, for I have no heart to 

* Ah, dearest Miss Temple,' said Lord Montfort, agitated, 
' I ask nothing but that Mendship ; but let me enjoy it in 
your constant society ; let the world recognise my right to 
be your consoler.' 

* You deserve a better and a brighter fe,te. I should not 
be your friend if I could enter into such an engagement' 


* The only aim of my life is to make yon happy,' said Lord 

* I am sure that I ought to be happy with such a friend,' 
said Henrietta Temple, ' and I ami happy. How different 
is the world to me from what it was before I knew you ! 
Ah, why will you disturb this life of consolation ? Why 
-will you call me back to recollections that I would fain 
banish ? Why ' 

* Dearest Miss Temple,' said Lord Montfort, ' do not re- 
proach me ! You make me wretched. Remember, dear 
lady, that I have not sought this conversation ; that if I 
were presumptuous in my plans and hopes, I at least took 
precautions that I should be the only sufferer by their non- 

* Best and most generous of men ! I would not for the 
world be unkind to you. Pardon my distracted words. But 
you. know all ? Has papa told you all ? It is. my wish.' 

* It is not mine,' replied Lord Montfort ; * I wish not to 
penetrate your sorrows, but only to soothe them.' 

* Oh, if we had but met earher,' said Henrietta Temple ; 
* if we had but known each other a year ago ! when I was, 
not worthy of you, but more worthy of you. But now, with 
health shattered, the lightness of my spirit vanished, the 
freshness of my feelings gone, no, my kind friend, my dear 
and gentle friend ! my affection for you is too sincere to ac- 
cede to your request ; and a year hence Lord Montfort will 
thank me for my denial.' 

* I scarcely dare to speak,' said Lord Montfort, in a low 
tone, as if suppressing his emotion, * if I were to express my 
feelings, I might agitate you. I will not then venture to 
reply to what you have urged ; to tell you I think you the 
most beautifol and engaging being that ever breathed ; or 
how I dote upon your pensive spirit, and can sit for hours 
together gazing on the language of those dark eyes. 
Miss Temple, to me you never could have been more beau- 


tiful, more £&8cmating. Alas ! I may not even breathe mj 
love ; I am unfortunate. And yet, sweet lady, pardon this 
agitation I have occasioned you ; try to love me yet ; endure 
at least my presence ; and let me continue to cherish that 
intimacy that has thrown over my existence a charm so in- 
expressible.' So saying, he ventured to take her hand, and 
pressed it with devotion to his lips. 



Lord Montfort was scarcely disheartened by this interview 
with Miss Temple. His lordship was a devout behever in 
the influence of time. It was unnatural to suppose that one 
80 young and 90 gifted as Henrietta oould ultimately main- 
tain that her career was tenninated because her affections 
had been disappointed by an intimacy which was confessedly 
of so recent an origin as the fatal one in question. Lord 
Montfort differed from most men in this respect^ that the 
consciousness of this intimacy did not cost him even a pang. 
He preferred indc^nl to gain the heart of a woman UkeMiss 
TompU\ who, withv>at having in the least degree forfeited 
the innate purity of her nature and the native freshness of 
hor feoling^ had yot kftrnt in some degree to penetrate the 
my^torr of the pas;»v^ns« to one so untutored in the world's 
w^jiv^ that she might have bestowed upon him a heart less 
expmencrxl indeeA bat not moiie innocent. He was con- 
vinced tluit the affection of Henriettak if once obtamed, 
murht W relied on« and thai the painful past would odj 
wake her more &Behr appreciate his high-minded devotion, 
aal amid all the daExKn^s: dianiicfiers and sedodng spectacles 
of tii^ wv>rid« cHr^ to him with a fiimo' cnratitade and a 


more faithfcd fondness. And jet Lord Montfort was a man 
of deep emotions, and of a very fastidious taste. He was a 
man of as romantic a temperament as Ferdinand Armine ; 
but with Lord Montfort, life was the romance of reason ; 
with Ferdinand, the romance of imagination. The first was 
keenly ahve to all the imperfections of our nature, but he 
also gave that nature credit for all its excellencies. He 
observed finely, he calculated nicely, and his result was 
generally happiness. Ferdinand, on the contrary, neither 
observed nor calculated. His imagination created fantasies, 
and his impetuous pa^ssions struggled to realise them. 

Although Lord Montfort carefully abstained from pur- 
suing the subject which nevertheless engrossed his thoughts, 
he had a vigilant and skilful ally in Mr. Temple. That 
gentleman lost no opportunity of pleading his lordship's 
cause, while he appeared only to advocate his own; and 
this was tbe most skilful mode of controlling the judgment 
of his daughter. 

Henrietta Temple, the most affectionate and dutiful of 
children, left to reflect, sometimes asked herself whether 
she were justified, from what she endeavoured to beheve 
was a mere morbid feeling, in not accomplishing the happi- 
ness of that parent who loved her so well ? There had 
been no concealment of her situation, or of her sentiments* 
There had been no deception as to the past. Lord Mont- 
fort knew aU. She told him that she could only bestow a 
broken spirit. Lord Montfort aspired only to console it. 
She was young. It was not probable that the death which 
she had once sighed for would be accorded to her. Was 
she always to lead this life ? "Was her father to pass the 
still long career which probably awaited him in ministering 
to the wearisome caprices of a querulous invalid ? This 
was a sad return for all his goodness : a gloomy catastrophe 
to all his bright hopes. And if she could ever consent to 
blend her life with another's, what individual could offer 


pretensions which might ensnre her tranqnillity, or even 
happiness, equal to those proffered by Lord Montfort? 
Ah ! who was eqnal to him ? so amiable, so generons, so 
interesting ! 

It was in such a mood of mind that Henrietta would 
sometimes turn with a glance of tenderness and gratitude 
to that being who seemed to breathe onljfor her solace and 
gratification. If it be agonising to be deserted, there is at 
least consolation in being cherished. And who cherished 
her ? One whom all admired ; one, to gain whose admira- 
tion, or even attention, every woman sighed. What was 
she before she knew Montfort ? J£ she had not known 
Montfort, what wonld she have been even at this present? 
She recalled the honrs of angnish, the long days of bitter 
mortification, the dnll, the wearisome, the cheerless, hope- 
less, nneventfhl honrs that were her lot when lying on her 
solitary sofii at Pisa, brooding over the romance of Annine 
and all its passion ; the catastrophe of Ducie, and .aQ its 
baseness. And now there was not a moment withont kind- 
ness, without sympathy, without considerate attention and 
innocent amusement. J£ she were querulous, no one mnr- 
mured ; if she were capricious, everyone yielded to her 
fimcies ; but if she smiled, everyone was happy. Dear, 
noble Montfort thine was the magic that had worked this 
change ! And for whom were aU these choice exertions 
made ? For one whom another had trifled with, deserted, 
betraved ! Ajid Montfort knew it. He dedicated his life 
to the consolation of a despised woman. J^>Aj\ir\g an the 
arm of Lord Montfort, Henrietta Temple might meet the 
eye of Ferdinand Armine and his rich bride, at least wi^ 
out feeling herself an object of pity ! 

Time had flown. The Italian spring, with aU its spSeDf 
dour, illumined the glittering palaces and purple shcHes of 
Naples. Lord Montfort and his friends were returning from 
Capua in his gaDey. Miss Temple was seated between her 


fakiiher and their host. The Ansonian clime, the beantifal 
scene, the sweet society, had all combined to produce a day 
of exqnisite enjoyment. Henrietta Temple conld not refrain 
from expressing her delight. Her eye sparkled like the star 
of eve that glittered over the glowing mountains ; her cheek 
was as radiant as the sunset. 

* Ah ! what a happy day this has been ! ' she exclaimed. 

The gentle pressure of her hand reminded her of the 
delight her exclamation had afforded one of her com- 
panions. "With a trembling heart Lord Montfort leant 
back in the galley ; and yet, ere the morning sun had flung 
its flaming beams over the city, Henrietta Temple was his 






Although Lord Moutfort was now the received and recog- 
nised admirer of Miss Temple, their intended nnion was 
not immediate. Henrietta was herself averse from snch an 
arrangement, but it was not necessary for her to nrge this 
somewhat ungracious desire, as Lord Montfort was anxious 
that she should be introduced to his &mily before their 
marriage, and that the ceremony should be performed in 
his native coimtry. Their return to England, therefore, 
was now meditated. The event was hastened by an extra- 
ordinary occurrence. 

Good fortune in this world, they say, is seldom single. 
Mr. Temple at this moment was perfectly content with his 
destiny. Easy in his own circumstances, with his daughter's 
future prosperity about to be provided for by an union with 
tlie heir to one of the richest peerages in the kingdom, he 
had nothing to desire. His daughter was happy, he enter- 
tained the greatest esteem and affection for his future son- 
in-law, and the world went well with him in eveiy respect. 

It was in this fulness of happiness that destiny, with its 
usual wild caprice, resolved * to gild refined gold, and paint 
the lily ;' and it was determined that Mr. Temple should 
wake one morning amonf^ the wealthiest commoners of 

Wwre happ^tied to be an old baronet, a great humourist, 


witbont any very near relations, who had been a godson of 
Mr. Temple's grandfiitber. He had never invited or en- 
couraged any intimacy or connection with the Temple family, 
but had always throughout life kept himself aloof from any * 
acquaintance with them. Mr. Temple indeed had only seen 
him once, but certainly under rather advantageous circum- 
stances. It was when Mr. Temple was minister at the 
Grerman Court, to which we have alluded, that Sir Temple 
Devereux was a visitor at the capital at which Mr. Temple 
was Kesident. The minister had shown him some civilities, 
which was his duty ; and Henrietta had appeared to please 
him. But he had not remained long at this place; and 
reinsed at the time to be more than their ordinary guest ; 
and bad never, by any letter, message, or other mode of 
communication, conveyed to them the slightest idea that 
the hospitable minister and his charming daughter had 
dwelt a moment on his memory. And yet Sir Temple 
Devereux had now departed from the world, where it had 
apparently been the principal object of his career to avoid 
ever making a friend, and had left the whole of his large 
fortune to the Bight Honourable Pelham Temple, by this 
bequest proprietor of one of the finest estates in the 
county of York, and a very considerable personal pro- 
perty, the accumulated savings of a large rental and a 
long life. 

This was a great event. Mr. Temple had the most pro- 
found respect for property. It was impossible for the late 
baronet to have left his estate to an individual who could 
•more thoroughly appreciate its possession. Even personal 
property was not without its charms ; but a large landed 
estate, and a large landed estate in the county of York, and 
that large landed estate flanked by a good round sum of 
rrhree per Cent. Consols duly recorded in the Rotunda of 
^hreadneedle Street, it was a combination of wealth, power, 
O)n8ideration, and convenience which exactly hit the ideal 


of Mr. Temple, and to the finscination of whicli perhaps the 
taste of few men would be insensible. Mr. Temple being 
a man of family, had none of the awkward embarrassments 
' of a parvenu to contend with. * It was the luckiest thing 
in the world,' he would say, * that poor Sir Temple was my 
grandfather's godson, not only because in all probability it 
obtained us his fortune, but because he bore the name of 
Temple : we shall settle down in Yorkshire scarcely as 
strangers, we shall not be looked upon as a new family, 
and in a little time the whole affiur will be considered 
rather one of inheritance than bequest. But, after all, what 
is it to me ! It is only for your sake, Bigby, that I rejoice. 
I think it will please your family. I will settle everything 
immediately on Henrietta. .They shall have the gratifi- 
cation of knowing that their son is about to marry the 
richest heiress in England.' 

The richest heiress in England ! Henrietta Temple the 
richest heiress in England ! Ah ! how many feelings with 
that thought arise ! Strange to say, the announcement of 
this extraordinary event brought less joy than might have 
been supposed to the heiress herself. 

It was in her chamber and alone, that Henrietta Temple 
mused over this jfreak of destiny. It was in vain to conceal 
it, her thoughts recurred to Ferdinand. They might have 
been so happy ! Why was he not true ? And perhaps he 
had sacrificed himself to his family, perhaps even personal 
distress had driven him to the fatal deed. Her kind femi- 
nine fancy conjured up every possible extenuation of his 
dire offence. She grew very sad. She could not believe 
that he was false at Ducie ; oh, no ! she never could believe 
it ! He must have been sincere, and if sincere, oh ! what 
a heart was lost there ! What would she not have given 
to have been the means of saving him from all his sorrows ! 
She recalled his occasional melancholy, his desponding 
words, and how the gloom left his brow and his eye bright- 


ened when she fondly prophesied that she would restore 
the house. She might restore it now; and now he was 
another's, and she, what was she ? A slave like him. No 
longer her own mistress, at the only moment she had the 
power to save him. Say what they like, there is a pang 
in balked affection, for which no wealth, power, or place, 
watchful indulgence, or sedulous kindness, can compensate. 
Ah ! the heart, the heart ! 



Ibss Gbandison had resolved upon taking a house in London 
for the season, and had obtained a promise from her uncle 
and aunt to be her guests. Lady Armine's sister was to 
join them from Bath. As for Ferdinand, the spring had 
gradually restored him to health, but not to his former 
frame of mind. He remained moody and indolent, incap- 
^le of exertion, and a prey to the darkest humours ; cir- 
Snnistances however occurred, which rendered some energy 
in his part absolutely necessary. His creditors grew impor- 
km&te, and the arrangement of his affairs or departure from 
bis native land was an alternative now inevitable. The 
uonth of April, which witnessed the arrival of the Temples 
md Lord Montfort in England, welcomed also to London 
Kiiss Grandison and her guests. A few weeks after, Fer- 
linand, who had evaded the journey with his family, and 
who would not on any account become a guest of his cousin, 
settled himself down at a quiet hotel in the vicinity of 
GhrosYonor-square ; but not quite alone, for almost at the 
last honr Glastonbury had requested permission to accom- 


pany him, and Ferdinand, who duly yalned the society O'^ 
the only person with whom he conld conyerse ahont hL^ 
broken fortunes and his blighted hopes without reserve » 
acceded to his wish with the greatest satisfaction. 

A sudden residence in a vast metropolis, after a life o^ 
rural seclusion, has without doubt a yery peculiar effec5J* 
upon the mind. The immense population, the multipliciiv 
of objects, the important interests hourly impressed npo 
the intelligence, the continually occurring events, the nois^ 
the bustle, the general and widely-spread excitement, a 
combine to make us keenly sensible of our individual ieb-— 
significance; and those absorbing passions that in on^i^ 
sohtude, fed by our imagination, have assumed such gi - 
gantic and substantial shapes, rapidly subside, by an almoi 
imperceptible process, into less colossal proportions, an-' 
seem invested as it were with a more shadowy aspect. 
Ferdinand Armine jostled his way through the crowded 
streets of London, urged on by his own harassing. ao-d 
inezorable affairs, and conscious of the impending peril o^ 
his career, while power and wealth dazzled his eyes in all 
directions, he began to look back upon the passionate past' 
with feelings of less keen sensation than heretofore, and 
almost to regret that a fatal destiny or his impetuous soul 
had entailed upom him so much anxiety, and prompted 
him to reject the glittering cup of fortune that had been 
proffered to him so opportunely. He sighed for enjoyment 
and repose ; the memory of his recent sufferings made him 
shrink from that reckless indulgence of the passions, of 
which the consequences had been so severe. 

It was in this mood, exhausted by a visit to his lawyer, 
that he stepped into a military club and took up a news- 
paper. Caring little for politics, his eye wandered over, 
uninterested, its pugnacious leading articles and tedious 
parliamentary reports ; and he was about to throw it down 
when a paragraph caught his notice which instantly en- 


ossed all his attention. It was in the ' Morning Post ' 

3^^ he thus read : 

* T)he Marqnis of Montfort, the eldest son of the Duke 

, whose return to England we recently noticed, 

'^ resided for several years in Italy. His lordship is con- 
l.ered one of the most accomplished noblemen of the day, 
^d was celebrated at Home for his patronage of the arts. 
^^xrd Montfort will shortly be nnited to the beautiful Miss 
^^niple, the only daughter of the Bight Honourable Pel- 
fcrn Temple. Miss Temple is esteemed one of the richest 
^iresses in England, as she will doubtless inherit the 
^ol© of the immense fortune to which her father so unex- 
'Ctedly acceded; Mr. Temple is a widower, and has no 
'^- Mr. Temple was formerly our minister at several of 
'^^ German Courts, where he was distinguished by his 
^ilities and his hospitality to his travelling countrymen. 

is said that the rent-roU of the Yorkshire estates of the 
^ Sir Temple Devereux is not less than 15,000Z. per 
^^tun. The personal property is also very considerable, 
^e tLnderstand that Mr. Temple has purchased the mansion 

^ th.© Duke of. , in Grosvenor-square. Lord Montfort 

^^cornpanied Mr. Temple and his amiable daughter to this 

WTiat a wild and fiery chaos was the mind of Ferdinand 
^^^'^Jciiiie when he read this paragraph. The wonders it 
^^«iled succeeded each other with such rapidity that for 
^ttio time he was deprived of the power of reflection, 
^^^^xdetta Temple in England ! Henrietta Temple one of 
^® S'^eatest heiresses in the country ! Henrietta Temple 
^^^"t to be immediately married to another! His Hen- 
ect^ Temple, the Henrietta Temple whom he adored, and 
i^^^^liom he had been worshipped ! The Henrietta Temple 
"^se beautiful lock of hair was at this very moment on 
f "*^©art ! The Henrietta Temple for whom he had for- 
ited fortune, fiimily, power, almost life ! 


O Woman, Woman ! Put not thy trust in woman ! An-d 
yet, could he reproach her? Did she not believe herseXf 
trifled with by him, outraged, deceived, deluded, deserted. ? 
And did she, could she love another ? Was there another 
to whom she had poured forth her heart as to him, and all 
that beautiful flow of fEbscinating and unrivalled emotioa P 
Was there another to whom she had pledged her pure an.d 
passionate soul? Ah, no! he would not, he could not 
believe it. Light and false Henrietta could never be. She 
had been seen, she had been admired, she had been loved : 
who that saw her would not admire and love ? and he was 
the victim of her pique, perhaps of her despair. 

But she was not yet married. They were, according io 
these lines, to be soon united. It appeared they had 
travelled together ; that thought gave him a pang. CooM 
he not see her ? Could he not explain all ? Could he not 
prove that his heart had ever been true and fond ? CooH 
he not tell her all that had happened, all that he liad 
suflered, all the madness of his misery; and could shd 
resist that voice whose accents had once been her joy, tiiat 
glance which had once filled her heart vnth rapture ? And 
when she found that Ferdinand, her own Ferdinand, bad 
indeed never deceived her, was worthy of her choice affec- 
tion, and suffering even at this moment for her sweet sake, 
what were all the cold-blooded ties in which she had since 
involved herself? She was his by an older and more 
ardent bond. Should he not claim his right ? Gould she 
deny it ? 

Claim what ? The hand of an heiress. Should it l)e 
said that an Airmine came crouching for lucre, where he 
ought to have commanded for love? Never! Whatever 
she might think, his conduct had been feniltless to her. It 
was not for Henrietta to complain. She was not the 
victim, if one indeed there might chance to be. He had 
loved her, she had returned his passion ; for her sake he 


^ made the greatest of sacrifices, forfeited a splendid in- 
3rit:ance, and a fond and Mth^ heart. When he had 
oixght of hep before, pining perhaps in some foreign 
litnde, he had never ceased reproaching himself for his 
Kx^nct, and had accused himself of deception and cruelty; 
"fc now, in this moment of her flush prosperity, * esteemed 
G of the richest heiresses in England ' (he ground his 
^Hh. as he recalled that phrase), and the afi&anced bride 

«. great noble, (his old companion, Lord Montfort, too ; 
^^^U a strange thing is life!) proud, smiling, and pros- 
*X>us, while he was alone, with a broken heart and worse 
^^ desperate fortunes, and all for her sake, his soul 
<5ame bitter : he reproached her with want of feeling ; he 
otnired her as void of genuine sensibility ; he dilated on 
*^ indifference since they had parted; her silence, so 
■^^^nge, now no longer inexplicable; the total want of 
^^^erest she had exhibited as to his career ; he sneered at 
^ lightness of her temperament ; he cursed her caprice ; 
^ denounced her infernal treachery ; in the distorted 
^^%ntom of his agonised imagination she became to him 
^en an object of hatred. 

Poor Ferdinand Armine! it was the first time he had 
^^)erienced the maddening pangs of jealousy. 

Tet how he had loved this woman ! How he had doated 
Qa her ! And now they might have been so happy ! There 
b nothing that depresses a man so much as the conviction 
of bad fortune. There seemed, in this sudden return, great 
irealih, and impending marriage of Henrietta Temple, such 
i combination, so far as Ferdinand Armine was concerned, 
if vexatious circumstances ; it would appear that he had 
leen so near perfect happiness and missed it, that he felt 
[lute weary of existence, and seriously meditated depriving 
limself of it. 

It so happened that he had promised this day to dine at 

38 cousin's ; for Glastonbury, who was usually his com 

X 2 


panion, had accepted an invitation this day to dine ^tb 
the noble widow of his old patron. Ferdinand, however, 
found himself quite incapable of entering into anj socieiy, 
and he hurried to his hotel to send a note of excQ86 to 
Brook-street. As he arrived, Glastonbury was just about 
to step into a hackney-coach, so that Ferdinand had no 
opportunity of communicating his sorrows to his friend, 
even had he been inclined. 



When Glastonbury arrived at the mansion of the good old 
duches5t, he found nobody in the drawing-room but a yonng 
man of distinguished appearance, whose person was un- 
known to him, but who nevertheless greeted him with 
remarkable cordiality. The good Glastonbury returned, 
with some confusion, his warm salutation. 

* It is many years since we last met, Mr. Glastonbniy/ 
said the young man. * I am not surprised you have for- 
gotten me. I am Digby ; perhaps you recollect me?' 

*My dear child! My dear knd! You have indeed 
ohangod ! You are a man, and I am a very old one.' 

• Nay ! my dear sir, I observe little change. Believe me, 
I havo <xften nsvallt^d your image in my long absence, and I 
tiud now that my memory has not dec^ved me.' 

iiU^tonburx and his companion feU into some conversa- 
tion about the latt«r*s traveis^ and residence at Bome^ in 
il^ midst of which their hostess entered. 

*1 hav!^ asked to«u my dc«r sir,, to meet our fiunilf 
curvli\' said her g?»c^ ^ 1^>r I do not think I can well ask 


yon to meet any who love yon better. It is long since yon 
have seen Digby.' 

* Mr. Glastonbnry did not recognise me, grandmamma,' 
said Lord Montfort. 

* These sweet children have all grown ont of your sight, 
Mr. Glastonbury,' said the duchess ; * but they are very 
good. And as for Digby, I really think he comes to see his 
poor grandmother every day.' 

The duke and duchess, and two young daughters, were 
now announced. 

* I was so sorry that I was not at home when you called, 
Glastonbury,' said his grace ; * but I thought I should soon 
hear of yon at grandmamma's.' 

* Ajid, dear Mr. Glastonbury, why did you not come up 
and see me ? ' said the younger duchess. 

* And, dear Mr. Glastonbury, do yon remember me ? ' said 
one beautiful daughter. 

* And me, Mr. Glastonbury, me ? I am Isabella.' 
Blushing, smiling, bowing, constrained from the novelty 

of his situation, and yet every now and then quite at ease 
when his ear recalled a familiar voice, dear Mr. Glaston- 
bury was gratified and happy. The duke took him aside, 
and they were soon engaged in conversation. 

* How is Henrietta to-day, Digby ? ' enquired Isabella. 
* I left her an hour ago ; we have been riding, and expected 
to meet you all. She will be here immediately.' 

There was a knock, and soon the drawing-room door 
opened, and Miss Temple was announced. 

* I must make papa's apologies,' said Henrietta, advanc- 
ing BJad embracing the old duehess. * I hope he may get 
here in the evening : but he bade me remind your grace 
that your kind invitation was only provisionally accepted.' 

*He is quite right,' said the old lady; * and indeed I 
liardly expected him, for he told me there was a public 
dinner which he was obliged to attend. I am sure that our 


dinner is a very private one indeed,' continued the old 
lady with a smile. 'It is really a family party, thongli 
there is one member of the family here whom yon do not 
know, my dear Miss Temple, and whom, I am sure, you 
will love as much as all of us do. Digby, where is ' 

At this moment dinner was announced. Lord Moutfort 
offered his arm to Henrietta. ' There, lead the way,' said 
the old lady ; * the girls must beau themselves, fori have no 
young men to-day for them. I suppose man and wife mnst 
be parted, so I must take my son's arm ; Mr. Glastonbniy, 
you will hand down the duchess.' But before Grlastonbury's 
name was mentioned Henrietta was half-way down stairs. 

The duke and his son presided at the dinner. Henrietta 
sat on one side of Lord Montfort, his mother on the other. 
Glastonbury sat on the right hand of the duke, and opposite 
their hostess ; the two young ladies in the middle. AH the 
guests had been seated without Glastonbury and Henrietta 
recognising each other ; and, as he sat on the same side of 
the table as Miss Temple, it was not until. Lord Montfort 
asked Mr. Glastonbury to take wine with him, that Henrietta 
heard a name that might well indeed turn her pale. 

Glastonbury ! It never entered into her head at the 
moment that it was the Mr. Glastonbury whom she had 
known. Glastonbury ! what a name ! What dreadM as- 
sociations did it not induce ! She looked forward, she 
caught the weU-remembered visage ; she sunk back in her 
chair. But Henrietta Temple had a strong mind ; this was 
surely an occasion to prove it. Mr. Glastonbury's attention 
was not attracted to her : he knew, indeed, that there was 
a lady at the table called Henrietta, but he was engrossed 
with his neighbours, and his eye never caught the daughter 
of Mr. Temple. It was not until the ladies rose to retire 
that Mr. Glastonbury beheld that form which he had not 
forgotten, and looked upon a lady whose name was associ- 
ated in his memory with the most disastrous and moumfxil 


moments of liis life. Miss Temple followed tlie duchess 
out of the room, and Grlastonbuiy, perplexed and agitated, 
resumed his seat. 

But Henrietta was the prey of emotions far more acute 
and distracting. It seemed to her that she had really been 
unacquainted with the state of her heart until this sudden 
apparition of Glastonbury. How Ms image recalled the 
past ! She had schooled herself to consider it all a dream ; 
now it lived before her. Here was one of the principal per- 
formers in that fSatal tragedy of Armine. Glastonbury in 
the house, under the same roof as she ? Where was Ferdi- 
nand ? There was one at hand who could teU her. Was he 
married ? She had enjoyed no opportunity of ascertaining 
it since her return : she had not dared to ask. Of course he 
was married; but was he happy? And Glastonbury, who, 
if he did not know all, knew so much. How strange it must 
be to Glastonbury to meet her ! Dear Glastonbury ! She 
had not forgotten the days when she so fondly listened to 
Ferdinand's charming narratives of all his amiable and 
simple life ! Dear, dear Glastonbury, whom she was so to 
love ! And she met him now, and did not speak to him, or 
looked upon him as a stranger ; and he, he would, perhaps, 
look upon her with pity, certainly with paui. O Life ! what 
a heart-breaking thing is Hfe ! And our affections, our sweet 
and pure affections, fountains of such joy and solace, that 
nourish all things, and make the most barren and rigid soil 
teem with life and beauty, oh ! why do we disturb the flow 
of their sweet waters, and pollute their immaculate and 
salutary source ! Ferdinand, Ferdinand Armine, why were 
yoa &lse ? 

The door opened. Mr. Glastonbury entered, followed by 
the duke and his son. Henrietta was sitting in an easy chair, 
one of Lord Montfort's sisters, seated on an ottoman at her 
side, held her hand. Henrietta's eye met Glastonbury's ; 
she bowed to him. 


* How your hand trembles, Henrietta ! ' said the young 

Glastonbury approached her with a hesitating step. He 
blushed faintly, he looked exceedingly perplexed. At length 
he reached her, and stood before her, and said nothing. 

* You have forgotten me, Mr. Glastonbury,' said Henri- 
etta ; for it was absolutely necessary that some one should 
break the awkward silence, and she pointed to a chair at her 

* That would indeed be impossible,' said Glastonbury. 

* Oh, you knew Mr. Glastonbury before,' said the young 
lady. * Grandmamma, only think, Henrietta knew Mr. 
Glastonbury before.' 

* We were neighbours in Nottinghamshire,' said Henrietta, 
in a quick tone. 

' Isabella,' said her sister, who was seated at the pianO; 

* the harp awaits you.' Isabella rose, Lord Montfort was 
approaching Henrietta, when the old duchess called to him. 

Henrietta and Glastonbury were alone. 

*Tliis is a strange meeting, Mr. Glastonbury,' said 

What could poor Glastonbury say? Something he mur- 
mured, but not very much to the purpose. * Have you been 
in Nottinghamshire lately ? ' said Henrietta. 

* I left it about ten days back with ,' and here Glas- 
tonbury stopped, * with a friend,' he concluded. 

* I trust all your friends are well,' said Henrietta, in a 
tremulous voice. 

*No; yes ; that is,' said Glastonbury, * something better 
than they were.' 

* I am sorry that my father is not here,' said Miss Temple ; 

* he has a lively remembrance of all your kindness.' 

' Kindness, I fear,' said Glastonbury, in a melancholy 
tone, * that was most unfortunate.' 

* We do not deem it so, sir,' was the reply. 


* Mj dear young lady,* said Glastonbury, but his voice 
faltered as he added, * we have had great unhappiness.' 

'I regret it,' said Henrietta. *You had a marriage, I 
believe, expected in your family? * 

' It has not occurred,' said Glastonbury. 

* Indeed ! ' 

' Alas ! madam,' said her companion, * if I might venture 
indeed to speak of one whom I will not name, and yet * 

' Pray speak, sir,' said Miss Temple, in a kind, yet hushed 

* The child of our affections, madam, is not what he was. 
God, in His infinite mercy, has visited him with great afflic- 

* You speak of Captain Armine, sir P ' 

' I speak indeed of my broken-hearted Ferdinand ; I would 
I could say yours. Miss Temple, he is a wreck.' 

' Yes ! yes I ' said Henrietta in a low tone. 

' What he has endured,' continued Glastonbury, * passes 
all description of mine. His life has indeed been spared, 
but under circumstances that almost make me regret he 

* He has not married I ' muttered Henrietta. 

' He oame to Ducie to claim his bride, and she was gone,' 
said Glastonbury ; * his mind sunk under the terrible be- 
reavement. For weeks he was a maniac ; and, though Pro- 
vidence spared him again to us, and his mind, thanks to 
GK>d, is again whole, he is the victim of a profound melan- 
choly, that seems to defy alike medical skill and worldly 

* Digby, Digby I ' exclaimed Isabella, who was at the harp, 
' Henrietta is fti^nting.' Lord Montfort rushed forward just 
in time to seize hor cold hand. 

' The room is too hot,' said one sister. 
' The coffee is too strong,' said the other. 

* Air,' said the young duchess. 


Lord Montfort carried Henrietta into a distant room. 
There was a balcony opening into a garden. He seated lier 
on a bench, and neyer quitted her side, but contrived to 
prevent anyone approaching her. The women clustered 

* Sweet creature!' said the old duchess, *she often makes 
me tremble ; she has but just recovered, Mr. Glastonbury, 
from a long and terrible iUness.' 

* Indeed ! * said Glastonbury. 

* Poor dear Digby,' continued her grace, * this will quite 
upset him again. He was in such spirits about her health 
the other day.' 

* Lord Montfort ? ' enquired Glastonbury. 

* Our Digby. You know that he is to be married to 
Henrietta next month.' 

* Holy Virgin ! ' muttered Glastonbury ; and, seizing ad- 
vantage of the confusion, he effected his escape. 




It was still an early hour when Mr. Glastonbury arrived at 
his hotel. He understood, however, that Captain AnniBe 
had already returned and retired. Glastonbury knocked 
gently at his door, and was infsrited to enter. The good 
man was pale and agitated. Ferdinand was already in bed. 
Glastonbury took a chair, and seated himself by his side. 
' My dear friend, what is the matter ? ' said Ferdinand. 

* I have seen her, I have seen her ! ' said Glastonbury. 

* Henrietta ! seen Henrietta ? ' enquired Ferdinand. 
Glastonbury nodded assent, but with a most rueful expres- 
sion of countenance. 


* Wliat has liappened ? wliat did she say ? ' asked Ferdi- 
nand in a qnick voice. 

* You are two innocent lambs,' said Glastonbury, rubbiog 
his bands. 

* Speak, speak, my Glastonbury.* 

* I wisb that my death could make you both happy,' said 
Glastonbury ; * but I fear that would do you no good.' 

' Is there any hope ? ' said Ferdinand. 

* None ! ' said Glastonbury. * Prepare yourself, my dear 
child, for the worst.' 

*Is she married ? ' enquired Ferdinand. 

* No ; but she is going to be.' 

* I know it,' said Ferdinand. 
Glastonbury stared. 

* You know it ? what! to Digby ? ' 

* Digby, or whatever his name may be ; damn him.' 

* Hush ! hush ! ' said Glastonbury. 

* May all the curses ' 

' G<)d forbid,' said Glastonbury, interrupting him. 

* Unfeeling, fickle, false, treacherous ' 

* She is an angel,' said Glastonbury, * a very angel. She 
has fainted, and nearly in my arms.' 

' Fainted ! nearly in your arms ! Oh, teU me all, teU me aU, 
Glastonbury,' exclaimed Ferdinand, starting up in his bed 
with an eager voice and sparkling eyes. ' Does she love me ?' 

* I fear so,' said Glastonbury. 

* Oh, how I pity her poor innocent heart ! ' said Glaston- 

* When I told her of aU your sufferings ' 

* Did you teU her ? What then ? ' 

* And she herself has barely recovered from a long and 
terrible illness.' 

* My own Henrietta! Now I could die happy,' said Fer- 


* I thouglit it would break your heart,' said Glastonbury. 

* It is the only happy moment I have known for months,* 
said Ferdinand. 

* I was so overwhelmed that I lost my presence of mind,' 
said Glastonbury. * I really never meant to tell you any- 
thing. I do not know how I came into your room,' 

* Dear, dear Glastonbury, I am myself again.' 

'Only think!' said Glastonbury; *I never was so un- 
happy in my life.' 

* I have endured for the last four hours the tortures of 
the damned,' said Ferdinand, ' to think that she was going 
to be married, to be married to another ; that she was 
happy, proud, prosperous, totally regardless of me, perhaps 
utterly forgetful of the past ; and that I was dying like a 
dog in this cursed caravanserai ! Glastonbury ! nothing 
that I have ever endured has been equal to the heU of this 
day. And now you have come and made me comparatively 
happy. I shall get up directly.' 

Glastonbury looked quite astonished ; he could not com- 
prehend how his fatal intelligence could have produced 
effects so directly contrary from those he had anticipated. 
However, in answer to Ferdinand's reiterated enquiries, he 
contrived to give a detailed account of everything that had 
occurred, and Ferdinand's running commentary continued 
to be one of constant self-congratulation. 

'There is, however, one misfortune,' said Ferdinand, 
* with which you are unacquainted, my dear friend.' 

* Indeed ! ' said Glastonbury, * I thought I knew enough.' 

* Alas ! she has become a great heiress ! ' 

* Is that it ? ' said Glastonbury. 

* There is the blow,' said Ferdinand. * Were it not for 
that, by the soul of my grandfather, I would tear her from 
the arms of this stripling.' 

'Stripling!' said Glastonbury. *I never saw a truer 
nobleman in my life.' 


' Ah ! ' exclaimed Ferdinand. 

'Nay, second scarcely to yonrself ! I could not believe 
my eyes/ continued Glastonbury. 'He was but a child 
when I saw him last ; but so were you, Ferdinand. Be- 
lieve me, he is no ordinary rivaL' 

* Good-looking? ' 

*AJtogether of a most princely presence. I have rarely 
met a personage so highly accomplished, or who more 
quickly impressed you with his moral and intellectual 

' And they are positively engaged ?' 

' To be married next month,' replied Glastonbury. 

' O Glastonbury ! why do I live ? ' exclaimed Ferdinand ; 
* why did I recover ? ' 

* My dear child, but just now you were comparatively 

' Happy ! You cannot mean to insult me. Happy! Oh, 
is there in this world a thing so deplorable as I am I ' 

* I thought I did wrong to say anything,' said Glaston- 
bury, speaking as it were to himself. 

Ferdinand made no observation. He turned himself in 
his bed, with his face averted from Glastonbury. 

'Good night,' said Glastonbury, after remaining some 
time in silence. 

* Good night,' said Ferdinand, in a faint and mournful 



Wpjitched as he was, the harsh business of life could 
not be neglected ; Captain Armine was obliged to be in. 
Lincoln's Inn by ten o'clock the next morning. It wan on 


' I thought it would break your heart,' said Glastonbury^ 
' It is the only happy moment I have known for month&^^ 
said Ferdinand. 

* I was so overwhelmed that I lost my presence of mine 
said Glastonbury. * I really never meant to tell you 
thing. I do not know how I came into your room.' 

' Dear, dear Glastonbury, I am myself again.' 
*Only think!' said Glastonbury; *I never was so 
happy in my life.' 

* I have endured for the last four hours the tortures o. 
the damned,' said Ferdinand, ' to think that she was goin^ 
to be married, to be married to another ; that she Tfras 
happy, proud, prosperous, totally regardless of me, perhaps 
utterly forgetful of the past ; and that I was dying Hke a 
dog in this cursed caravanserai ! O Glastonbury ! nothiiig 
that I have ever endured has been equal to the hell of tbis 
day. And now you have come and made me comparatively 
happy. I shall get up directly.' 

Glastonbury looked quite astonished ; he could not com- 
prehend how his fatal intelligence could have prodaced 
effects so directly contrary from those he had anticipated. 
However, in answer to Ferdinand's reiterated enquiries, he 
contrived to give a detailed account of everything that had 
occurred, and Ferdinand's running commentary continued 
to be one of constant self-congratulation. 

* There is, however, one misfortune,' said Ferdinand, 
* with which you are unacquainted, my dear friend.' 

' Indeed! ' said Glastonbury, * I thought I knew enough.' 
' Alas ! she has become a great heiress ! ' 

* Is that it ? ' said Glastonbury. 

* There is the blow,' said Ferdinand. * Were it not for 
that, by the soul of my grandfather, I would tear her from 
the arms of this stripling.' 

'Stripling!' said Glastonbury. *I never saw a truer 
nobleman in my life.' 


! ' exclaimed Ferdinand, 
-^ny, second scarcely to yonrself ! I could not believe 
^ ^yes,' continued Glastonbury. * He was but a child 
. ^^u I saw him last ; but so were you, Ferdinand. Be- 
^^e me, he is no ordinary rival.* 

Altogether of a most princely presence. I have rarely 
st a personage so highly accomplished, or who more 
^IXlickly impressed you with his moral and intellectual 

* And they are positively engaged ?' 

* To be married next month,' replied Glastonbury. 

* O Glastonbury ! why do I Kve ? * exclaimed Ferdinand ; 
* why did I recover ? ' 

* My dear child, but just now you were comparatively 

* Jlappy ! You cannot mean to insult me. Happy! Oh, 
is there in this world a thing so deplorable as I am ! ' 

* I thought I did wrong to say anything,' said Glaston- 
bury, speaking as it were to himself. 

Ferdinand made no observation. He turned himself in 
his bed, with his face averted from Glastonbury. 

*Good night,' said Glastonbury, after remaining some 
time in silence. 

* Good night,' said Ferdinand, in a faint and mournful 



"WP.BTCHED as he was, the harsh business of Kfe could 
not be neglected ; Captain Armine was obliged to be in 
Lincoln's Inn by ten o'clock the next morning. It was on 


his return from his lawyer, as he was about to cross Berki^^. 
ley-square, that a carriage suddenly stopped in the xnid^JIe 
of the road, and a female hand apparently beckoned to 
from the window. He was at first very doubtful whether 
were indeed the person to whom the signal was address^jci, 
but as on looking around there was not a single humaoa. 
being in sight, he at length slowly approached the equipa.g'&, 
from which a white handkerchief now waved with consideir— ' 
able agitation. Somewhat perplexed by this incident, th^' 
mystery was, however, immediately explained by the voic^^ 
of Lady Bellair. 

* You wicked man,' said her little ladyship, in a great rage^ 
'Oh! how I hate you! I could cut you up into minced 
meat; that I could. Here I have been giving parties 
every night, all for you too. And you have been in town, 
and never called on me. Tell me your name. How is yoiir 
wife ? Oh! you are not married. You should marry; I 
hate a cidevant jeune homme. However, you can wait a 
little. Here, James, Thomas, Peter, what is your name, 
open the door and let him in. There get in, get in ; I haye 
a great deal to say to you.' And Ferdinand found that itr 
was absolutely necessary to comply. 

*Now, where shall we go? ' said her ladyship ; *I have 
got till two o'clock. I make it a rule to be at home every 
day from two till six, to receive my friends. You must come 
and call upon me. You may come every day if you like. 
Do not leave your card. I hate people who leave cards. I 
never see them ; I order all to be burnt. I cannot bear 
people who leave bits of paper at my house. Do you want 
to go anywhere ? You do not ! Why do not you ? How 
is your worthy father. Sir Peter ? Is his name Sir Peter 
or Sir Paul ? Well, never mind, you know whom I mean. 
And your charming mother, my fiEivourite friend ? She is 
charming ; she is quite one of my fevourites. And were 
not you to marry ? TeU me, why have you not? Miss, 


^^> you know whom I mean, whose grandfather was my 
>n B fi^iend. In town are thej ? Where do they live ? 
'"'^k-street! I will go and call npon them. There, pnll 
•^ strings and tell him where they live.* 
"^^^i so, in a few minutes. Lady Bellair's carriage stopped 
p^^ite the house of Miss Grandison. 
^^e they early risers ? ' said her ladyship ; * I get up 
'^^y' morning at six. I dare say they will not receive me ; 
' <lo you show yourself, and then they cannot refuse.' 
'^ oonsequence of this diplomatic movement Lady Bel- 
^fiected an entrance. Leaning on the arm of Ferdi- 
''^*> her ladyship was ushered into the morning-room, 
she found Lady Armine and Katherine. 

"■*^;y dear lady, how do you do ? And my sweet miss ! 
• ^our eyes are so bright, that it quite makes me young 
*^^ok upon them! I quite love you, that I do. Tour 
^^father and my poor son were bosom fiiends. And, 

^i©ar lady, where have you been all this time ? Here 
^^ I been giving parties every night, and all for you ; 

^or my Bath friends ; telling everybody about you ; 
**itig of nothing else ; everybody longing to see you; and 
^ have never been near me. My dinner-parties are over ; 
^^hall not give any more dinners until June. But I have 
'"'^ evenings yet; to-night, you must come to me to- 
^ht, and Thursday, and Saturday; you must come on 
•1 three nights. Oh ! why did you not caU upon me ? I 
bonld have asked you to dinner. I would have asked you 
o meet Lord Colonnade and Lady Ionia ! They would have 
Bfit suited you; they would have tasted you! But I 
ell you what I will do ; I will come and dine with you 
ome day. Now, when will you have me ? Let me see, 
rhen am I free ? ' So saying, her ladyship opened a little 
3d book, which was her inseparable compapiopi in London. 
AJl this week I am ticketed; Monday, the Derricourts, 
ill, but then he is a duke. Tuesday I dine with Bonmot ; 


we have made it up ; he gives me a dimier. Wednesdt^ 
Wednesday, where is Wednesday? General Fanevill 
my own party. Thursday, the Maxborys, bad dinner, 1t>xit 
good company. Friday, Waring Gutts, a famous horLsc 
for eating ; but that is not in my way ; however, I nxxL^i 
go, for he sends me pines. And Saturday, I dine off m 
rabbit, by myself, at one o'clock, to go and see my deswr 
darling Lady St. Julians at Bichmond. So it cannot h^^ 
this or next week. I will send you a note ; I will tell yo"* 
to-night. And now I must go, for it is five minutes to twi 
I am always at home from two till six^ I receive m-^ 
friends ; you may come every day, and you must come t> 
see my new squirrel ; my darling, funny, little grandsc^ 
gave it me. And, my dear miss, where is that wicke?^^ 
Lady Grandison ? Do you ever see her, or are you enemiei^ * 
She has got tlie estate, has not she ? She never calls upoxz 
me. Tell her she is one of my greatest favourites. Ob- • 
why does not she come ? I should have asked her to 
dinner ; and now all my dinners are over till June. Tell 
me where she lives, and I will call upon her to-morrow.' 

So saying, and bidding them all ferewell very cordially, 
her ladyship took Ferdinand's arm and retired. 

Captain Armine returned to his mother and cousin, and 
sat an hour with them, until their carriage was announced. 
Just as he was going away, he observed Lady Bellair's little 
red book, which she had left behind. 

* Poor Lady Bellair, what will she do ? ' said Miss Gran- 
dison ; ' we must take it to her immediately.' 

' I will leave it,' said Ferdinand, ' I shall pass her house.' 

Bellair House was the prettiest mansion in May Fair. It 
was a long building, in the Italian style, situate in the 
midst of gardens, which, though not very extensive, were 
laid out with so much art and taste, that it was very diffi- 
cult to believe that you were in a great city. The house 
was furnished and adorned with all that taste for which 


ly Bellair was distinguislied. All tlie reception rooms 
e on the ground floor, and were all connected. Ferdi- 
id, who remembered Lady Bellair' s injunctions not to 
r& cards, attracted by the spot, and not knowing what 
lo with himself, determined to pay her ladyship a visit, 
. "was ushered into an octagon library, lined with well- 
5n dwarf cases of brilliant volumes, crowned with no 
c of marble busts, bronzes, and Etruscan vases. On 
Ix side opened a magnificent saloon, furnished in that 
isic style which the late accomplished and ingenious 
. Hope first rendered popular in this country. The 
i^s, projecting far into the gardens, comprised re- 
otively a dining-room and a conservatory of considerable 
tensions. Isolated in the midst of the gardens was a 
^ building, called the summer-room, lined with Indian 
'•trfcing, and screened on one side from the air, merely by 
^etian blinds. The walls of this chamber were almost 
^tirely covered with caricatures and prints of the country 
^ts of Lady Bellair's friends, all of which she took care 
) visit. Here also were her parrots, and some birds of a 
teeter voice, a monkey, and the famous squirrel. 

Lady Bellair was seated in a chair, the back of which 
as much higher than her head ; at her side was a Kttlo 
kble with writing materials, and on which also was placed 
magnificent bell, by Benvenuto Cellini, with which her 
dyship summoned her page, who, in the meantime, 
itered in the hall. 

*Tou have brought me my book!' she exclaimed, as 
3idinand entered with the mystical volume. * Give it me, 
ve it me. Here I cannot tell Mrs. Fancourt what day I 
A dine with her. I am engaged all this week and all 
sty and I am to dine with your dear fiunily when I like, 
at Mrs. Fancourt must choose her day, because they will 
)ep. You do not know this gentleman,' she said, turning 
' Mrs. Fancourt. * Well, I shall not introduce you ; he 



will not suit you ; lie is a fine gentleman, and only dines 
with dnkes/ 

Mrs. Fancoort consequently looked veiy anxious for an 

* G^eneral Paneville,' Lady Bellair continued, to a gentle- 
man on her left, * what day do I dine with you ? Wednesday. 
Is our party full ? You must make room for him ; lie is my 
greatest favourite. All the ladies are in love with, him.' 

General Faneville expressed his deep sense of the high 
honour ; Ferdinand protested he was engaged on Wednes- 
day ; Mrs. Fancourt looked very disappointed that she had 
thus lost another opportunity of learning the name of so 
distinguished a personage. 

There was another knock. Mrs. Fancourt departed. 
Lady Maxbury, and her daughter, Lady Seliiia^ were an- 

* Have you got him?' asked Lady Bellair, very eagerly, as 
her new visitors entered. 

' He has promised most positively,' answered Lady Max- 

' Dear, good creature ! ' exclaimed Lady Bellair, * you are 
the dearest creature that I know. And you are charming,' 
she continued, addressing herself to Lady Selina ; ' if I were 
a man, I would marry you directly. There now, he (turning 
to Ferdinand) cannot marry you, because he is married 
already ; but he should, if he were not. And how will he 
come ? ' enquired Lady Bellair. 

* He will find his way,' said Lady Maxbury. 

* And I am not to pay anything ? ' enquired Lady Bellair^ 

* Not anything,' said Lady Maxbury. 

* I cannot bear paying,' said Lady Bellair. * But will he 
dance, and will he bring his bows and arrows ? Lord Dor- 
field protests 'tis nothing without the bows and arrows.' 

* What, the New Zealand chief, Lady Bellair?' enquired 
the general. 


* Have you seen him ? ' enquired Lady Bellair, eagerly. 

* Not yet/ replied the gentleman. 

* Well then, yon will see him to-night,* said Lady Bellair, 
-witli an air of triumph. * He is coming to me to-night.' 

Ferdinand rose, and was about to depart. 

* You must not go without seeing my squirrel,' said her 
ladyship, * that my dear fimny grandson gave me : he is 
such a funny boy. You must see it, you must see it,' added 
her ladyship, in a peremptory tone. 'There, go out of 
that door, and you will find you way to my summer-room, 
and there you will find my squirrel.* 

The restless Ferdinand was content to quit the library, 
even with the stipulation of first visiting the squirrel. He 
walked through a saloon, entered the conservatory, emerged 
into the garden, and at length found himself in the long 
summer-room. At the end of the room a lady was seated, 
looking over a book of prints ; as she heard a footstep she 
raised her eyes, and Ferdinand beheld Henrietta Temple. 

He was speechless ; he felt rooted to the ground ; all 
power of thought and motion alike deserted him. There 
he stood, confounded and aghast. Nor indeed was his 
companion less disturbed. She remained with her eyes 
fixed on Ferdinand with an expression of fear, astonish- 
ment, and distress impressed upon her features. At length 
Ferdinand in some degree rallied, and he followed the first 
impulse of his mind, when mind indeed returned to him : 
he moved to retire. 

He had retraced half his steps, when a voice, if human 
voice indeed it were that sent forth tones so full of choking 
anguish, pronounced his name. 

\ Captain Armine ! ' said the voice. 

How he trembled, yet mechanically obedient to his first 
impulse, he still proceeded to the door. 

* Ferdinand ! ' said the voice. 

He stopped, he turned, she waved her hand wildly, and 

T 2 


then leaning her arm on the table, buried her face in :£^^' 
Ferdinand walked to the table at which she was sittin^^' 
she heard his footstep near her, yet she neither looked u^^T? 
nor spoke. At length he said, in a still yet clear voice, *^^ 
am here.* 

* I have seen Mr. Glastonbury,' she muttered. 
' I know it,* he replied. 

* Your illness has distressed me,' she said, after a sligl*^^^^'' 
pause, her face still concealed, and speaking in a hushe -^^^ 
tone. Ferdinand made no reply, and there was anothe^^^' 
pause, which Miss Temple broke. 

* I would that we were at least friends,' she said. Th — ^6 
tears came into Ferdinand's eyes when she said this, fo^^r 
her tone, though low, was now sweet. It touched L^ '^ 

* Our mutual feelings now are of little consequence,' \m~ ^ 

She sighed but made no reply. At length Ferdinaa.^ 
said, * Farewell, Miss Temple.' 

She started, she looked up, her mournful countenance^ 
harrowed his heart. He knew not what to do ; what i>o 
say. He could not bear her glance, he in his turn averte^i 
his eyes. 

* Our misery is, has been great,' she said in a firmer tonCi 
*but was it of my making?' 

*The miserable can bear reproaches; do not spare me. 
My situation, however, proves my sincerity. I have erred 
certainly,' said Ferdinand ; * I could not believe that you 
could have doubted me. It was a mistake,' he added, in a 
tone of great bitterness. 

Miss Temple again covered her face as she said, * I cannot 
recall the past : I wish not to dwell on it. I desire only to 
express to you the interest I take in your welfare, my hope 
ttiat you may yet be happy. Tes! you can be happy, 
Ferdinand; Ferdinand, for my sake you wiH be happy.' 


) Heni'ietta, if Hennetta I indeed may call yon, this 
orse than that death I cnrse myself for haying es- 

^o, Ferdinand, say not that. Exert yourself, only 
i yourself, bear np against irresistible fate. Your 

[n, everyone says she is so amiable ; surely ' 

i^arewell, madam, I thank you for your counsel.' 

Joy Ferdinand, you shall not go, you shall not go, in 

r. Pardon mo, pity me, I spoke for your sake, I spoke 

he best.* 

, at least, will never be false,* said Ferdinand with 

gy. *It shall not be said of me that I broke vows 

ecrated by the finest emotions of our nature. No, no, 

ve had my dream ; it was but a dream : but while I 

I will live upon its sweet memory.' 
Ui ! Ferdinand, why were you not frank ; why did you 
«al your situation from me ? * 

1^0 explanation of mine can change our respective situa- 
3,' said Ferdinand ; *I content myself therefore by saying 

it was not Miss Temple who had occasion to criticise 
You are bitter.' 

rhe lady whom I injured, pardoned me. She is the 
t generous, the most amiable of her sex ; if only in gra- 
3e for all her surpassing goodness, I would never affect 
ffer her a heart which never can be hers. Katherine is 
^ more than woman. Amid my many and almost nn- 
illeled sorrows, one of my keenest pangs is the recoUec- 

that I should have clouded the life, even for a moment, 
lat admirable person. Alas ! alas ! that in all my misery 
only woman who sympathises with my wretchedness 
^e woman I hawe injured. And so delicate as well 
^ generous! She would not even enquire the name 
le individual who had occasioned our mutual deso- 


* Would that she knew all,' mnrmiired Henrietta ; 'would 
that I knew her.' 

* Your acquaintance could not influence affairs. My very 
affection for my cousin, the complete appreciation which I 
now possess of her character, before so little estimated and 
so feebly comprehended by me, is the very circumstance that, 
with my feelings, would prevent our union. She may, I 
am confident she will, yet be happy. I can never make her 
so. Our engagement in old days was rather the result of 
£Eunily arrangements than of any sympathy. I love her &r 
better now than I did then, and yet she is the very last 
person in the world that I would marry. I trust, I believe, 
that my conduct, if it have clouded for a moment her life, 
will not ultimately, will not long obscure it ; and she has 
eveiy charm and virtue and accident of fortune to attract 
the admiration and attention of the most fi&voured. Her 
feelings towards me at any time could have been but mild 
and cabn. It is a mere abuse of terms to siyle such senti- 
ments love. But,' added he sarcastically, * this is too d^- 
cate a subject for me to dilate on to Miss Temple.' 

' For Grod^s sake do not be so bitter,' she exclaimed ; and 
then she added, in a voice half of anguish, half of tender- 
ness, * Let me never be taunted by those lips ! O Ferdinand, 
why cannot we be Mends?' 

' Because we are more than friends. To me such aword 
from your Hps is mere mockery. Let ns never meet. That 
alone remains for us. Little did I suppose that we ever 
should have met again. I go nowhere, I enter no single 
house ; my visit here this morning was one of tliose whim- 
sical vagaries which cannot be counted on. This old la^ 
indeed seems, somehow or other, connected with our des- 
tiny. I believe I am greatly indebted to her.' 

The page entered the room. 'Miss Temple,' said tiie 
lad, ' my lady bid me say the duchess and Lord Montfort 
were here,* 


Ferdinand started, and darting, almost iinconscioiLBlj, a 
glance of fierce reproacli at the miserable Henrietta, he 
rushed out of the room and made his escape from Bellair 
Honse without re-entering the Kbrary. 



Seated on an ottoman in the octagon library, occasionallj 
throwing a glance at her illuminated and crowded saloons, 
or beckoning, with a fan almost as long as herself, to a dis- 
tant guest. Lady BellaLp received the world on the evening 
of the day that had witnessed the strange rencontre between 
Henrietta Temple and Ferdinand Armine. Her page, who 
stood at the library-door in a new fancy dress, received the 
announcement of the company from the other servants, and 
himself communicated the information to his mistress. 

* Mr. Million de Stockville, my lady,* said the page. . 

* Hem! ' said her ladyship, rather gruflSiy, as, with no very 
amiable expression of countenance, she bowed, with her 
haughtiest dignity, to a rather common-looking personage 
in a gorgeously-embroidered waistcoat. 

* Lady Ionia Colonnade, my lady.' 

Lady Bellair bestowed a smiling nod on this fair and 
classic dame, and even indicated, by a movement of her fan, 
that she might take a seat on her ottoman. 

*Sir Ratcliflfe and Lady Armine, my lady, and Miss 

* Dear, good people ! ' exclaimed Lady Bellair, * how late 
you are ! and where is your wicked son ? There, go into 
the next room, go, go, and see the wonderfol man. Lady 
Ionia, you must know Lady Armine ; she is like you ; she 
is one of my favourites. Now then, there all of you go 


together. I will not have anybody stay here except my 
niece. This is my niece,' Lady Bellair added, pointing to 
a young lady seated by her side; *I give this party for 

* General Faneville, my lady.* 

* You are very late,' said Lady Bellair. 

* Idined at Lord Bochfort's,* said the general, bowing. 

* Rochfort's ! Oh ! where are they ? where are the 
Rochforts ? they ought to be here. I must, I will see 
them. Do you think Lady Bochfort wants a nursery 
governess ? Because I have a charming person who would 
just suit her. Gro and find her out^ General, and enquire ; 
and if she do not want one, find out some one who does. 
Ask Lady Maxbury. There, go, go.' 

* Mr. and ^liss Temple, my lady.' 

* Oh, my darling ! ' said Lady Bellair, * my real darling ! 
sit by me. I sent Lady Ionia away, because I determined 
to keep this place for you. I give this party entirely in 
your honour, so you ought to sit here. Yon are a good 
man,' she continued, addressing Mr. Temple ; * but I can't 
love you so well as your daughter.' 

' I should be too fortunate,' said Mr. Temple, smiling. 

*I knew you when you ate pap,' said Ladj Bellair, 

* Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, my lady.' 

Lady Bellair assumed her coldest and haughtiest glance. 
Mrs. Montgomery appeared more gorgeous than ever. The 
splendour of her sweeping train almost required a page to 
support it ; she held a bouquet which might have served 
for the centre-piece of a dinner-table. A slender youii, 
rather distinguished in appearance, simply dressed, with a 
rose-bud just twisted into his black coat, but whose person 
distilled odours whose essence might have exhausted a 
conservatory, lounged at her side. 

* May I have the honour to present to your ladyship Lord 


Catchimwhocan,' breathed forth Mrs. Montgomery, exult- 
ing in her companion, perhaps in her conqnest. 

Lady Bellair gave a short and nngracions nod. Mrs. 
Montgomery recognised Mr. and Miss Temple. 'There, 
go, go,' said Lady Bellair, interrupting her, * nobody must 
stop here ; go and see the wonderfiil man in the next 

*Lady Bellair is so strange,* whimpered Mrs. Mont- 
gomery, in an apologetical whisper to Miss Temple, and she 
moYed away, covering her retreat by the graceful person of 
Iiord Catchimwhocan. 

* Some Irish guardsman, I suppose,' said Lady Bellair. 
* I never heard of him ; I hate guardsmen.' 

* Rather a distinguished-looking man, I think,' said Mr. 

* Do you think so ? ' said Lady Bellair, who was always 
influenced by the last word. ' I will ask him for Thursday 
and Saturday. I think I must have known his grand- 
father. I must tell him not to go about with that horrid 
-woman. She is so very fine, and she uses musk ; she puts 
me in mind of the Queen of Sheba,' said the little lady, 
laughing, 'all precious stones and frankincense. I quite 
hate her.' 

* I thought she was quite one of your favourites. Lady 
Bellair?' said Henrietta Temple, rather maliciously. 

* A Bath favourite, my dear ; a Bath fisivourite. I wear 
my old bonnets at Bath, and use my new friends ; but in 
town I have old friends and new dresses.' 

* Lady Frederick Berrington, my lady.' 

* Oh ! my dear Lady Frederick, now I will give you a 
treat. I wiU introduce you to my sweet, sweet friend, 
whom I am always talking to you of. You deserve to 
know her ; you wiU taste her ; there, sit down, sit by her, 
and talk to her, and make love to her.' 

'Lady Womandeville, my lady.' 


* Ah ! she will do for the lord ; she loves a lord. My 
dear lady, you come so late, and yet I am always so glad to 
see you. I have such a charming friend for you, the hand- 
somest, most fashionable, witty person, quite captivating, 
and his grand^Etther was one of my dearest Mends. What 
is his name? what is his name? Lord Catchimwhocan. 
Mind, I introduce you to him, and ask him to your house 
very often.' 

Lady WomandeviUe smiled, expressed Jier delight, and 
moved on. 

Lord Montfort, who had arrived before the Temples, 
approached the ottoman. 

^ Is the duchess here ? ' enquired Henrietta, as she shook 
hands with him. 

*And Isabella,' he replied. Henrietta rose, and taking 
his arm, bid adieu to Lady Bellair. 

* God bless you,' said her ladyship, with great emphasis. 
* I will not have you speak to that odious Mrs. Floyd, mind.' 

When Lord Montfort and Henrietta succeeded in dis- 
covering the duchess, she was in the conservatory, which 
was gaily illuminated with coloured lamps among the 
shrubs. Her grace was conversing with cordiality with a 
lady of very prepossessing appearance, and in whom the 
traces of a beauty once distinguished were indeed still con- 
siderable, and her companion, an extremely pretty person, 
in the very bloom of girlhood. Lord Montfort and Hen- 
rietta were immediately introduced to these ladies, as Lady 
Armine and Miss Grandison. Affcer the scene of the morn- 
ing, it was not easy to deprive Miss Temple of her equa- 
nimity; after that shock, no incident connected with the 
Armine family could be surprising ; she was even desirous 
of becoming acquainted with Miss Grandison, and she con- 
gratulated herself upon the opportunity which had so 
speedily ofifered itself to gratify her wishes. The duchess 
was perfectly delighted with Lady Armine, whose manners 


^Bscmating; between the fskniilies there was some 
action of blood, and Lady Armine, too, had always 
ued a HTelj sense of the old dnke's seryioes to her son. 
Letta had even to listen to enqniiies made after Ferdi- 
, and she learnt that he was slowfy reooTenng firom an 
st filial illness, that he conld not endure the fisitigiies of 
7j, and that he was even, living at an hotel for the sake 
iet. Henrietta watched the oonntenanoe of Katherine, 
^djAjrmine gave this information. It was serious, bat 
listarbed. Her grace did not separate firom her new 
^ the whole of the erening, and they parted with a 
Jilly expressed wish that they might speedily and often 
. The dnchess pronounced Lady Armine the most 
ming person she had ever met; while, on the other 
L, Miss Grandison was warm in her admiration of 
rietta Temple and Lord Montfbrt, whom she thought 
i worthy even of so rare a prize. 



WEES the unexpected meeting with Captain Armine in 
morning and the OTening assembly at BeDair House, a 
DQunication had been made by Miss Temple to Lord 
tfort, which ought not to be quite unnoticed. She had 
rued home with his mother and himself, and her silence 
depression had not escaped him. Soon after their 
ral they were left alone, and then Henrietta said, 
rby, I wish to speak to you! ' 

if y own ! ' said Lord Montfort, as he seated himself by 
Ofn the SO&, and took her hand. 

iss Temple was calm ; but he would haye been a light 
crer who had not detected her suppressed agitation. 


'Dearest Digby,* she con tinned, *you are so generous 
and so kind, that I ought to feel no reluctance in speaking 
to you upon this subject ; and yet it pains me very much/ 
She hesitated. 

* I can only express my sympathy with any sorrow of 
yours, Henrietta,* said Lord Montfort. * Speak to me as 
you always do, with that frankness which so much delights 

' Let your thoughts recur to the most painful incident of 
my life, then,' said Henrietta. 

' If you require it,' said Lord Montfort, in a serious 

* It is not ray fault, dearest Bigby, that a single circum- 
Rtance connected with that unhappy event should be un- 
known to you. I wished originally that you should know 
all. I have a thousand times since regretted that your 
consideration for my feelings should ever have occasioned 
an imperfect confidence between us ; and something has 
occurred to-day which makes me lament it bitterly.' 

' No, no, dearest Henrietta ; you feel too keenly/ said 
Lord Montfort. 

* Indeed, Digby, it is so,' said Henrietta veiy mourn- 

' Speak, then, dearest Henrietta.' 

* It is necessary that you should know the name of that 
person who once exercised an influence over my feelings, 
which I never affected to disguise to you.' 

* Is it indeed necessary? * enquired Lord Montfort. 

* It is for my happiness,' repHed Henrietta. 

* Then, indeed, I am anxious to learn it.' 

* He is in this country,' said Henrietta, * he is in this 
town ; he may be in the same room with you to-morrow ; 
he has been in the same room with me even this day.' 

* Indeed ! ' said Lord Montfort. 

*He beans a name not unknown to you,' said Hen- 


rietia, * a name, too, that I must teach myself to mention, 
and yet ' 

Lord Montfort rose and took a pencil and a sheet of 
paper from the tablej * Write it,' he said in a kind tone. 

Henrietta took the pencil, and wrote, 

* Armine.' 

* The son of Sir Ratcliffe ? ' said Lord Montfort. 

* The same,' replied Henrietta. 

* Yon heard then of him last night ? ' enquired her com- 

* Even so ; of that, too, I was abont to speak.' 

* I am aware of the connection of Mr. Glastonbury with 
the Armine family,' said Lord Montfort, quietly. 

There was a dead pause. At length Lord Montfort said, 
* Is there anything you wish me to do ? ' 

* Much,' said Henrietta. * Dearest Digby,' she continued, 
after a moment's hesitation, * do not misinterpret me ; my 
heart, if such a heart be worth possessing, is yours. I can 
never forget who solaced me in my misery ; I can never 
forget all your delicate tenderness, Digby. Would that I 
could make a return to you more worthy of all your good- 
ness ; but if the gratefdl devotion of my life can repay you, 
you shall be satisfied.' 

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. * It is of you, 
and of your happiness that I can alone think,' he murmured. 

* Now let me tell you all,' said Henrietta, with desperate 
firmness. * I have done this person great injustice.' 

* Hah ! ' said Lord Montfort. 

* It cuts me to the heart,' said Henrietta. 

* You have then misconceived his conduct ? ' enquired 
Lord Montfort. 

* Utterly.' 

*It is indeed a terrible situation for you,' said Lord 
Montfort ; * for all of us,' he added, in a lower tone. 

* No, Digby ; not for all of us ; not even for myself; for 


if you are happy I will be. But for him, yes ! I will not 
conceal it fix>ni you, I feel for him/ 

* Your destiny is in your own hands, Henrietta.' 

* No, no, Digby ; do not say so,' exclaimed Miss Temple, 
very earnestly ; * do not speak in that tone of sacrifice. 
There is no need of sacrifice ; there shall be none. I will 
not, I do not fidter. Be you firm. Do not desert me in 
this moment of trial. It is for support I speak ; it is for 
consolation. We are bound together by ties the purest, the 
holiest. Who shall sever them? No ! Digby, we will be 
happy ; but I am interested in the destiny of this unhappy 
person. You, you can assist me in rendering it more 
serene ; in making him, perhaps, not less happ j than our- 

* I would spare no labour,' said Lord Montfort. 

'Oh, that you would not!' exclaimed Miss Temple. 
* You are so good, so noble ! You would sympathise even 
with him. What other man in your situation would ? ' 


* Listen : he was engaged to his cousin even on that &fcal 
day when we first met ; a lady with every charm and 
advantage that one would think could make a man happy; 
young, noble, and beautiM ; of a most amiable and generous 
disposition, as her subsequent conduct has proved ; and of 
great we^th.' 

*Miss Grandison?' said Lord Montfort. 

* Yes : his parents looked forward to their union with 
delight, not altogether unmixed with anxiety. The Armines, 
with all their princely possessions, are greatly embarrassed 
firom the conduct of the last head of their house. Fer- 
dinand himself has, I grieve to say, inherited too much of 
his grandfather's imprudent spirit ; his affairs, I fear, are 
terribly involved. When I knew him^ papa was, as you 
are aware, a poor man. This marriage would have cared 
^ ; my Digby, I wish it to take place.' 


* How can we effect it ?' asked Lord Montfort. 

'Become his friend, dear Digby. I always ^-In'nV yon 
can do anything. Yes ! my only trust is in you. Oh ! my 
Digby, make us all happy.' 

Lord Montfort rose and walked up and down the room, 
apparently in profound meditation. At length he said, 
* Best assured, Henrietta, that to secure your happiness 
nothing shall ever be wanting on my part. I will see Mr. 
Grlastonbury on this subject. At present, dearest, let us 
think of lighter things.' 



It was on the morning after the assembly at Bellair House 
that Ferdinand was roused from his welcome slumbers, 
for he had passed an almost sleepless night, by his ser- 
vant bringing him a note, and telling him that it had been 
left by a lady in a carriage. He opened it, and read as 
follows : — 

* Silly, silly Captain Armine ! why did you not come to 
my Yauxhall last night ? I wanted to present you to the 
&irest damsel in the world, who has a great fortune too ; 
hut that yon don't care about. When are you going to be 
married ? Miss Grandison looked charming, but disconso- 
late without her knight. Your mother is an angel, and 

the Thichess of is quite in love with her. Your father, 

too, is a worthy man. I love your family very muck» 

Come and call upon poor old doting bedridden H. B., 

who is at home every day from two to six to receive her 

^ends. Has charming Lady Armine got a page ? I have. 

azxe that would just suit her. He teases my poor squirrel 

s€> tliat I am obliged to turn him away ; but he is a real 


treasure. That fine lady, Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, woul^i 
give her ears for him ; but I love your mother much moi 
and so she shall have him. He shall come to her to-nigh^ 
All the world takes tea with H. B. on Thursday an.^^ 

* One o'clock ! ' said Ferdinand, * I may as well get up 
and call in Brook-street, and save my mother firom this 
threatened infliction, Heigho ! Day after day, and eaci 
more miserable than the other. How will this end ? ' 

When Ferdinand arrived in Brook-street, he went up 
stairs without being announced, and found in the drawing- 
room, besides his mother and Klatherine, the duchess, 
Lord Montfort, and Henrietta Temple. 

The young ladies were in their riding-habits. Henrietta 
appeared before him, the same Henrietta whom he had 
met, for the first time, in the pleasaunce at Armine. 
Retreat was impossible. Her grace received Ferdinand 
cordially, and reminded him of old days. Henrietta bowed, 
but she was sitting at some distance with Miss Grandison, 
looking at some work. Her occupation covered her con- 
fusion. Lord Montfort came forward with extended hand. 

* I have the pleasure of meeting an old Wend,' said his 

Ferdinand just touched his lordship's finger, and bowed 
rather stiffly ; then, turning to his mother, he gave her 
Lady Bellair's note. Mt concerns you more than myself^* 
he observed. 

*You were not at Lady Bellair's last night, Captain 
Armine,' said her grace. 

* I never go anywhere,' was the answer. 

* He has been a great invalid,* said Lady Armine. 
'Where is Glastonbury, Ferdinand ? ' said Lady Armine. 

* He never comes near us.' 

* He goes every day to the British Museum.' 

*I wish he would take me,' said Katherine. *I have 


been there. Have you?' slie enquired, turning to 

X am ashamed to say never,' replied Henrietta. *It 
^^s to me that London is the only city of which I know 

* Ferdinand,' said Elatherine, * I wish you would go with 
^ to the Museum some day. Miss Temple would like to 
Bo. You know Miss Temple,' she added, as if she of course 
apposed he had not that pleasure. 

Ferdinand bowed; Lord Montfort came forward, and 
tamed the conversation to Egyptian antiquities. When a 
quarter of an hour had passed, Ferdinand thought that he 
might now withdraw. 

' Do you dine at home, Katherine, to-day ? ' he enquired. 

Miss Grandison looked at Miss Temple ; the young 
ladies whispered. 

* Ferdinand,' said Katherine, * what are you going to do ?' 

* Nothing particidar.' 

'We are going to ride, and Miss Temple wishes you 
would come with us.' 

* I should be very happy, but I have some business to 
attend to.' 

'Dear Ferdinand, that is what you always say. You 
really appear to me to be the most busy person in the 

* Pray come. Captain Armine,' said Lord Montfort. 

* Thank you; it is really not in my power.' His hat 
was in his hand ; he was begging her grace to bear his 
compliments to the duke, when Henrietta rose from her 
seat, and, coming up to him, said, ' Do, Captain Armine,. 
come with us ; I ask you as a favour.' 

That voice ! Oh! it came o'er his ear * like the sweei 
south ;' it unmanned him quite. He scarcely knew whiere 
he was. He trembled from head to foot. His colour 
deserted him, and the unlucky hat fell to the ground ; and 



yet she stood before him, awaitmg his reply, calm, quite 
cabn, serious, apparently a little anxious. The duchess 
was in earnest conversation with his mother. Lord Mont- 
fort had walked up to Miss Grandison, and was engaged 
in arranging a pattern for her. Ferdinand and Henrietta 
were quite unobserved. He looked up; he caught her 
eye ; and then he whispered, * This is hardly fear.' 

She stretched forth her hand, took his hat, and laid it 
on the table ; then, turning to Katherine, she said, in a 
tone which seemed to admit no doubt, ' Captain Armine 
will ride with us ; ' and she seated herself by Lady Armine. 

The expedition was a little delayed by Ferdinand having 
to send for his horse ; the others had, in the meantime, 
arrived. Yet this half-hour, by some contrivance, did at 
length disappear. Lord Montfort continued talking to 
Miss Grandison. Henrietta remained seated by Lady 
Armine. Ferdinand revolved a great question in his mind, 
and it was this : Was Lord Montfort aware of the intimate 
acquaintance between himself and Miss Temple? And 
what was the moving principle of her present conduct? 
He conjured up a thousand reasons, but none satisfied 
him. His curiosity was excited, and, instead of regretting^ 
his extracted promise to join the cavalcade, he rejoiced 
that an opportunity was thus afforded hm of perhaps 
solving a problem in the secret of which he now began to 
feel extremely interested. 

And yet in truth when Ferdinand found himself really 
mounted, and riding by the side of Henrietta Temple once 
more, for Lord Montfort was very impartial in his atten- 
tions to his fair companions, and Ferdinand continually 
found himself next to Henrietta, he really began to think 
the world was bewitched, and was almost sceptical whether 
he was or was not Ferdinand Armine. The identity of his 
companion too was so complete : Henrietta Temple in her 
riding-habit was the very image most keenly impressed 


upon his taemory. He looked at her and stared at lier 
-with a face of cnrioiis perplexity. She did not, indeed, 
speak mnch; the conversation was always general, and 
chiefly maintained by Lord Montfort, who, thongh nsnaUy 
silent and reserved, made on this occasion successfdl efforts 
to be amnsing. His attention to Ferdinand too was re- 
markable ; it was impossible to resist snch genuine and 
unaffected kindness. It smote Ferdinand's heart that he 
had received his lordship's first advances so ungraciously. 
Compunction rendered him now doubly courteous ; he was 
even once or twice almost gay. 

The day was as fine as a clear sky, a warm sun, and a 
western breeze could render it. Tempted by so much enjoy- 
ment, their ride was long. It was late, much later than 
thi^ expected, when they returned home by the green lanes 
of pretty Willesden, and the Park was quite empty when 
they emerged fix)m the Edgware-road into Oxford-street. 

*Nbw the best thing we can aU do is to dine in St. 
James'-square,' said Lord Montfort. ' It is ten minutes 
past eight. We shall just be in time, and then we can 
send mess£^es to Grosvenor-square and Brook-street. 
What say you, Armine ? You will come, of course ? ' 

* Thank you, if you would excuse me.' 

*Nb, no; why excuse you?' said Lord Montfort: *I 
think it shabby to desert us now, after aU our adven- 

* Beally you are very kind, but I never dine out.' 

* Dine out ! What a phrase ! You will not meet a 
human being ; perhaps not even my father. If you will 
not come, it will spoil everything.' 

* 1 cannot dine in a frock,' said Ferdinand. 

* I shaU,' said Lord Montfort, ^ and these ladies must 
dine in their habits, I suspect.' 

* Oh ! certainly, certainly,' said the ladies. 

* Do come, Ferdinand,' said Katherine. 

_ o 


* I ask you as a favour,' said Henrietta, turning to him 
and speaking in a low voice. 

* Well,' said Ferdinand, with a sigh. 

* That is well,' said Montfort ; * now let us trot through 
the Park, and the groom can call in Grosvenor-square and 
Brook-street, and gallop after us. This is amusing, is 
it not ? ' 




When Ferdinand found himself dining in St. James'- 
square, in the very same room where he had passed so 
many gay hours during that boyish month of glee which 
preceded his first joining his regiment, and then looked 
opposite him and saw Henrietta Temple, it seemed to him 
that, by some magical process or other, his life was acting 
over again, and the order of the scenes and characters had, 
by some strange mismanagement, got confused. Yet he 
yielded himself up to the excitement which had so nii. 
expectedly influenced him ; he was inflamed by a species of 
wild dehght which he could not understand, nor stop to 
analyse ; and when the duchess retired with the young 
ladies to their secret conclave in the drawing-room, she 
said, * I Uke Captain Armine very much ; he is so ftdl of 
spirit and imagination. When we met him this morning, 
do you know, I thought him rather stiff and fine. I 
regretted the bright boyish flow that I so well recollected, 
but I see I was mistaken.' 

'Ferdinand is much changed,' said Miss Grandison. 
* He was once the most brilliant person, I think, that ever 
lived : almost too brilliant ; everybody by him seemed so 
tame. But since his illness he has quite changed. I have 


scarcely heard him speak or seen him smile these six 
months. There is not in the whole world a person so 
wretchedly altered. He is quite a wreck. I do not know 
what is the matter with him to-day. He seemed once 
almost himself.' 

* He indulged his feelings too much, perhaps,' said 
Henrietta; *he lived, perhaps, too much alone, after so 
severe an illness.' 

' Oh, no ! it is not that,' said Miss Grandison, * it is not 
exactly that. Poor Ferdinand ! he is to be pitied. I fear 
he will never be happy again.' 

* Miss Grandison should hardly say that,' said the 
duchess, * if report speaks truly.' 

Katherine was about to reply, but checked herself. 
Henrietta rose from her seat rather suddenly, and asked 
Xatherine to touch the piano. 

The duchess took up the * Morning Post ! ' 

* Poor Ferdinand ! he used to sing once so beautifully, 
too ! ' said Katherine to Miss Temple, in a hushed voice. 
* He never sings now.' 

* You must make him,' said Henrietta. 
Miss Grandison shook her head. 

* You have influence with him ; you should exert it,' said 

* I neither have, nor desire to have, influence with him,' 
Baid Miss Grandison. * Dearest Miss Temple, the world is 
in error with respect to myself and my cousin ; and yet I 
ought not to say to you what I have not thought proper to 
confess even to my aunt.' 

Henrietta leant over and kissed her forehead. *Say 
what you like, dearest Miss Grandison ; you speak to a 
friend, who loves you, and will respect your secret.' 

The gentlemen at this moment entered the room, and 
interrupted this interesting conversation. 

* You must not quit the instrument, Miss Grrandison,* 


said Lord Montforfc, seating himself by her side. Ferdi- 
nand fell into conversation with the duchess ; and Miss 
Temple was the amiable victim of his grace's passion for 

' Captain Armine is a most agreeable person,' said Lord 

Miss Grandison rather stared. * We were just speaking 
of Ferdinand,' she replied, 'and I was lamenting his sad 

'Severe illness, illness so severe as his, mnst for the 
moment change anyone ; we shall soon see him himself 

* Never,' said Miss Grandison moumfally. 

* You . must inspire him,' said Lord Montfort. * I per- 
ceive you have great influence with him.' 

* I give Lord Montfort credit for much acuter percep- 
tion than that,' said Miss Grandison. 

Their eyes met : even Lord Montfort's dark vision shrank 
before the searching glance of Miss Grrandison. It con- 
veyed to him that his purpose was not undiscovered. 

* But you can exert influence, if you please,' said Lord 

* But it may not please me,' said Miss Grandison. 

At this moment Mr. Glastonbury was announced. He 
had a general invitation, and was frequently in the habit 
of paying an evening visit when the &iinily were dis- 
engaged. When he found Ferdinand, Henrietta, and 
Katherine, all assembled together, and in so strange a garb, 
his perplexity was wondrous. The tone of comparative 
ease, too, with which Miss Temple addressed him, com- 
pleted his confusion. He began to suspect that some 
critical explanation had taken place. He looked aroimd 
for information. 

' We have all been riding,' said Lord Montfort. 

* So I perceive,' said Glastonbury. 


* And as we were too late for dinner, took refage here,' 
continued his lordship. 

* I observe it,' said Glastonbury. 

' Miss Grandison is an admirable musician, sir.' 

* She is an admirable lady in every respect,' said Glaston- 

* Perhaps you will join her in some canzonette ; I am so 
stupid as not to be able to sing. I wish I could induce 
Captain Armine.' 

* He has left off singing,' said Glastonbury mournfully. 
* But Miss Temple ? ' added Glastonbury, bowing to that 

* Miss Temple has left off singing too,' said Lord Mont- 
fort, quietly. 

'Come, Mr. Glastonbury,' said the duchess, 'time was 
when you and I have sung together. Let us try to shame 
these young folks.' So saying her grace seated herself at 
the piano, and the gratified Glastonbury summoned all his 
energies to accompany her. 

Lord Montfort seated himself by Ferdinand. * You have 
been severely ill, I am sorry to hear.' 

* Yes ; I have been rather shaken.' 

* This spring will bring you round.' 

^So everyone tells me. I cannot say I feel its beneficial 

*You should,' said Lord Montfort. *At our age we 
ought to rally quickly.' 

* Yes ! Time is the great physician. I cannot say I have 
much more fiiith in him than in the spring.' 

*Well, then, there is Hope ; what think you of that ?' 
*I have no great faith,' said Ferdinand, affecting to 


'Believe, then, in optimism,' said Henrietta Tfemple, 
without taking her eyes off the cards. 'Whatever is, 
is best.' 


* That is not my creed, Miss Temple/ said Ferdinand^ 
and he rose and was abont to retire. 

^ Mnst you go ? Let ns all do something to-morrow 
said Lord Montfort, interchanging a glance with Henriett:. 

* The British Museum ; Miss Grandison wishes to go -fo 
the British Museum. Pray come with us.' 

* You are very good, but — ' 

' Well ! I will write you a little note in the morning and 
tell you our plans,' said Lord Montfort * I hope you will 
not desert us.' 

Ferdinand bowed and retired : he avoided catching the 
eye of Henrietta. 

The carriages of Miss Temple and Miss Grandison were 
soon announced, and, fatigued with their riding-dresses, 
these ladies did not long remain. 

* To-day has been a day of trial,' said Henrietta, as she 
was about to bid Lord Montfort &rewell. ' What do you 
think of affairs ? I saw you speaking to Elatherine. What 
do you think ? ' 

' I think Ferdinand Armine is a formidable rival Do 
you know I am rather jealous ? ' 

* Digby ! can you be ungenerous ? ' 

' My sweet Henrietta, pardon my levity. I spoke in the 
merest playfulness. Nay,' he continued, for she seemed 
reaUy hurt, * say good night very sweetly.' 

' Is there any hope ? ' said Henrietta. 

' All's well that ends well,' said Lord Montfort, smiling; 

* Qod bless you.' 

Glastonbury was about to retire, when Lord Montfort 
returned and asked him to come up to his lordship's own 
apartments, as he wished to show him a curious antique 

* Ybu seemed rather surprised at the guests you found 
here to-night,' said Lord Montfort when they were alone. 

Glastonbury looked a little confused. ' It was certainly 


'^^^^J^ious meeting, all things considered/ continued Lord 
^'tfbrt : * Henrietta has never concealed anything of the 
*^^ from me, but I have always wished to spare her details. 
^^M her this morning I should speak to you upon the 
^"^ject, and that is the reason why I have asked you 

' It is a painful history,' said Glastonbury. 

* As painful to me as anyone,* said his lordship ; * never- 
^leless, it must be told. When did you first meet Miss 
Temple ? ' 

* I shall never forget it,' said Glastonbury, sighing and 
moving very uneasily in his chair. * I took her for Miss 
Grandison.' And Glastonbury now entered into a com- 
plete histary of everything that had occurred. 

' It is a strange, a wonderful story,' said Lord Montfort, 

* and you communicated everything to Miss Grandison ? ' 

* Everything but the name of her rival. To that she 
would not listen. It was not just, she said, to one so 
unfortunate and so unhappy.' 

' She seems an admirable person, that Miss Grandison,' 
said Lord Montfort. 

' She is indeed as near an angel as anything earthly can 
be,' said Glastonbury. 

* Then it is still a secret to the parents ? ' 

* Thus she would have it,' said Glastonbury. * She 
clings to them, who love her indeed as a daughter ; and 
she shrank from the desolation that was preparing for 

* Poor girl ! ' said Lord Montfort, * and poor Armine ! 
By heavens, I pity him fix)m the bottom of my heart.' 

*K you had seen him as I have,' said Glastonbury, 

* wilder than the wildest Bedlamite ! It was an awful sight.' 

* Ah ! the heart, the heart,' said Lord Montfort : * it is 
a -delicate organ, Mr. Glastonbury. And think you his 
fibther and mother suspect nothing ? ' 


*I know not what they think,' said Glastonbury, *but 
they mnst soon know all.' And he seemed to shudder at 
the thought. 

* Why must they ? * asked Lord Montfort. 
Glastonbury stared. 

'Is there no hope of softening and subduing all their 
sorrows ? * said Lord Montfort ; ' cannot we again bring 
together these young and parted spirits ? ' 

* It is my only hope,' said Glastonbury, * and yet I some- 
times deem it a forlorn one.' 

' It is the sole desire of Henrietta,' said Lord Montfort ; 
* cannot you assist us ? Will you enter into this con- 
spiracy of affection with us ? ' 

' I want no spur to such a righteous work,' said Glaston- 
bury, *but I cannot conceal fix)m myself the extreme 
difficulty. Ferdinand is the most impetuous of human 
beings. His passions are a whirlwind ; his volition more 
violent than becomes a suffering mortal.' 

* You think, then, there is no difficulty but with him ?' 
*I know not what to say,' said Glastonbury; *calm 

as appears the temperament of Miss Grandison, she has 
heroic qualities. Oh ! what have I not seen that admirable 
young lady endure ! Alas ! my Digby, my dear lord, few 
passages of this terrible story are engraven on my memory 
more deeply than the day when I revealed to her the fetal 
secret. Yet, and chiefly for her sake, it was my duty.' 

* It was at Armine ? ' 

*At Armine. I seized an opportunity when we were 
alone together, and without fear of being disturbed. We 
had gone to view an old abbey in the neighbourhood. We 
were seated among its ruins, when I took her hand and 
endeavoured to prepare her for the fatal intelligence. " All 
is not right with Ferdinand," she immediately said; "there 
is some mystery. I have long suspected it." She listened 
to my recital, softened as much as I could for her sake, in 


silence. Yet her paleness I never can forget. She looked 
like a saint in a niche. When I had finished, she whis- 
pered me to leave her for some short time, and I walked 
away, out of sight indeed, but so near that she might 
easily summon me. I stood alone until it was twilight, in 
a' state of moumfdl suspense that I recall even now with 
anguish. At last I heard my name sounded, in a low yet 
distinct voice, and I looked round and she was there. She 
had been weeping. I took her hand and pressed it, and 
led her to the carriage. When I approached our unhappy 
home, she begged me to make her excuses to the family, 
and for two or three days we saw her no more. At length 
she sent for me, and told me she had been revolving all 
these sad circumstances in her mind, and she felt for others 
more even than for herself; that she forgave Ferdinand, 
and pitied him, and would act towards him as a sister; 
that her heart was distracted with the thoughts of the 
nnliappy young lady, whose name she would never know, 
bat that if by her assistance I could effect their union, 
means should not be wanting, though their source must be 
cxmcealed ; that for the sake of her aunt, to whom she is 
indeed passionately attached, she would keep the secret, 
until it could no longer be maintained; and that in the 
meantime it was to be hoped that health might be restored 
to her consin, and Providence in some way interfere in 
fssvauT of this unhappy family.' 

* Angelic creature 1 * said Lord Montfort. * So young, 
too ; I think so beautiful. Good God ! with such a heart 
what could Armine desire ? ' 

^ Alas !' said Glastonbury, and he shook his head. * You 
know not the love of Ferdinand Armine for Henrietta 
Temple. It is a wild and fearful thing ; it passeth human 

Lord Montfort leant back in his chair, and covered his 
hco with his hands. After some minutes he looked up. 


and said in his nsnal placid tone, and with an nnm^B^ 
brow, * Will you take anything before yon go, Mr. Glastox: 



Ferdinand returned to his hotel in no very good hmnotir, 
revolving in his mind Miss Temple's advice about optmnsm. 
What could she mean ? Was there really a conspiracy to 
make him marry his cousin, and was Miss Temple one of 
the conspirators ? He could scarcely believe this, and yet 
it was the most probable deduction from all that had beea 
said and done. He had lived to witness such strange 
occurrences, that no event ought now to astonish him. 
Only to think that he had been sitting quietly in a drawing- 
room with Henrietta Temple, and she avowedly engaged to 
be married to another person, who was present ; and that 
he, Ferdinand Armine, should be the selected companion 
of their morning ride, and be calmly invited to contribute 
to their daily amusement by his social presence ! What 
next P If this were not an insult, a gross, flagrant, and 
unendurable outrage, he was totally at a loss to comprehend 
what was meant by oflfended pride. Optimism, indeed! 
He felt far more inclined to embrace the £edth of the 
Manichee ! And what a fool was he to have submitted 
to such a despicable, such a degrading situation ! What 
infinite weakness not to be able to resist her influence, the 
influence of a woman who had betrayed him ! Yes ! be- 
trayed him. He had for some period reconciled his mind 
to entertain the idea of Henrietta's treachery to him. 


Softened by time, atoned for by long suffering, extenuated 
by the constant sincerity of his purpose, his original im- 
prudence, to use his own phrase in describing his miscon- 
duct, had gradually ceased to figure as a valid and sufficient 
cause for her behaviour to him. When he recollected how 
he had loved this woman, what he had sacrificed for her, 
and what misery he had in consequence entailed upon 
himself and all those dear to him ; when he contrasted his 
present perilous situation with her triumphant prosperity, 
and remembered that while he had devoted himself to a 
love which proved false, she who had deserted him was, by 
a caprice of fortune, absolutely rewarded for her fickleness ; 
he was enraged, he was disgusted, he despised himself for 
hvaing been her slave ; he began even to hate her. Terrible 
moment when we first dare to view with feelings of repug- 
nance the being that our soul has long idolised ! It is the 
most awful of revelations. We start back in horror, as if 
in the act of profanation. 

Other annoyances, however, of a less ethereal character, 
awaited our hero on his return to his hotel. There he 
found a letter from his lawyer, informing him that he could 
no longer parry the determination of one of Captain Armine*s 
principal creditors to arrest him instantly for a consider- 
able sum. Poor Ferdinand, mortified and harassed, with 
his heart and spirit alike broken, he could scarcely refrain 
from a groan. However, some step must be taken. He 
drove Henrietta from his thoughts, and, endeavouring to 
rally some of his old energy, revolved in his mind what 
desperate expedient yet remained. 

TTia sleep was broken by dreams of bailiffs, and a vague 
idea of Henrietta Temple triumphing in his misery ; but he 
rose early, wrote a diplomatic note to his menacing creditor, 
which he felt confident must gain him time, and then, 
making a careful toilet, for when a man is going to try to 
borrow money it is wise to look prosperous, he took his 


way to a quarter of the town where lived a gentlema^:^ 
with whose brother he had had some previous dealings s^^ 
Malta, and whose acquaintance he had made in Englajx^icj 
in reference to them. 

It was in that gloomy quarter called Golden-square, tbie 
murky repose of which strikes so mysteriously on the 
senses after the glittering bustle of the adjoining Eegent- 
street, that Captain Armine stopped before a noble jet 
now dingy mansion, that m old and happier days might 
probably have been inhabited by his grandfiither, or some 
of his gay friends.' A brass plate on the door informed 
the world that here resided Messrs. Morris and Levison, 
following the not very ambitious calling of coal merchants. 
But if all the pursuers of that somewhat humble trade 
could manage to deal in coals with the same dexterity as 
Messrs. Morris and Levison, what very great coal mer- 
chants they would be ! 

The ponderous portal obeyed the signal of the bell, and 
apparently opened without any human means ; and Cap- 
tain Armine, proceeding down a dark yet capacious passage, 
opened a door, which invited him by an inscription on 
ground glass that assured him he was entering the counting- 
house. Here several clerks, ensconced within lofty waUs of 
the darkest and dullest mahogany, were busily employed ; 
yet one advanced to an aperture in this fortification and 
accepted the card which the visitor offered him. The clerk 
surveyed the ticket with a peculiar glance ; and then, begging 
the visitor to be seated, disappeared. He was not long 
absent, but soon invited Ferdinand to follow him. Captain 
Armine was ushered up a noble staircase, and into a saloon 
that once was splendid. The ceiling was richly carved, 
and there still might be detected the remains of its once 
gorgeous embellishment in the faint forms of faded deities 
and the traces of murky gilding. The walls of this apart- 
ment were crowded with pictures, arranged, however, with 


ie regard to taste, eflfect, or style. A sprawling copy 
Titian's Venus flanked a somewhat prim peeress by 
^ppner ; a landscape tliat smacked of Grainsborongh was 
^ companion of a dauby moonlight, that must have 
5^red in the last exhibition ; and insipid Boman matrons 
T Hamilton, and stiff English ' heroes by Northcote, con- 
^^sted with a vast quantity of second-rate delineations of 
^^ orgies of Dutch boors and portraits of favourite racers 
•^^ fency dogs. The room was crowded with ugly fumi- 
^^^^ of all kinds, very solid, and chiefly of mahogany; 
^^ong which were not less than three escritoires, to say 
^iotiiing of the huge horsehair sofiis. A sideboard of Baby- 
lonian proportions was crowned by three massive and 
enormous silver salvers, and immense branch candlesticks 
of the same precious metal, and a china punch-bowl which 
tnight have suited the dwarf in Brobdignag. The floor was 
X)vered with a faded Turkey carpet. But amid all this 
olid splendour there were certain intimations of feminine 
iegance in the veil of finely-cut pink paper which covered 
iie nakedness of the empty but highly-polished fire-place, 
ad in the hand-screens, which were profdsely ornamented 
ith ribbon of the same hue, and one of which afforded a 
LOst arccnrate if not picturesque view of Margate, while 
le other glowed with a huge wreath of cabbage-roses and 

Ferdinand was not long alone, and Mr. Levison, the 
roprietor of all this splendour, entered. He was a short, 
oat man, with a grave but handsome countenance, a little 
lid, but nevertheless with an elaborateness of raiment 
hich might better have become a younger man. He wore 
plum-coloured frock coat of the finest cloth; his green 
dvet waistcoat was guarded by a gold chain, which would 
we been the envy of a new town council ; an immense 
lal gleamed on the breast of his embroidered shirt ; and 
s fingers were covered with very fine rings. 


' Your sarvant, Captin/ said Mr. Levison, and he plac .^ 
a chair for his guest. 

* How are you, Levison ? ' responded our hero in an eewr^ 
voice. * Any news ? ' 

Mr. Levison shrugged his shoulders, as he murmured^ 

* Times is very bad, Captin.' 

* Oh ! I dare say,' said Ferdinand ; * I wish they were as 
well with me as with you. By Jove, Levison, you must be 
making an immense fortune.' 

Mr. Levison shook his head, as he groaned out^ ' I work 
hard, Captin ; but times is terrible.' 

* Fiddlededee ! Come ! I want you to assist me a little, 
old fellow. No humbug between us.' 

' Oh ! ' groaned Mr. Levison, ' you could not come at a 
worse time ; I don't know what money is.' 

* Of course. However, the fact is, money I must have; 
and so, old fellow, we are old Mends, and you must get it.' 

* What do you want, Captin ? ' slowly spoke Mr. Levison, 
with an expression of misery. 

' Oh ! I want rather a tolerable sum, and that is the 
truth ; but I only want it for a moment.' 

* It is not the time, 'tis the money,' said Mr. Levison. 

* You know me and my pardner, Captin, are always anxious 
to do what we can to sarve you.' 

* Well, now you can do me a real service, and, by Jove, 
you shall never repent it. To the point; I must Lave 

' One thousand five hundred pounds ! ' exclaimed Mr. 
Levison. * 'Tayn't in the country.' 

* Humbug. It must be found. What is the use of all 
this stuff with me ? I want 1,500Z., and you must give it 

* I teU you what it is, Captin,' said Mr. Levison, leaning 
over the back of a chair, and speaking with caUons com- 
posure ; * I tell you what it is, me and my pardner are very 



n ^^S always to assist yon ; but we want to know when 
^ marriage is to come off, and that's the truth.' 
Damn the marriage,' said Captain Armine, rather stag- 

* There it is though,' said Mr. Levison, very quietly, 
^oa know, Captin, there is the arrears on that 'ere an- 

Unity, three years next Michaebnas. I think it's Michael- 
&ias; let me see.' So saying, Mr. Levison opened an 
escritoire, and brought forward an awful-looking volume, 
and, consulting the terrible index, turned to the fatal name 
of Armine. ' Yes ! three years next Michaelmas, Captin.' 

* Well, you will be paid,' said Ferdinand. 

* We hope so,' said Mr. Levison ; * but it is a long 

' Well, but you get capital interest.' 

* Pish ! ' said Mr. Levison ; * ten per cent. ! Why ! it is 
giving away the money. Why ! that's the raw, Captin. 
With this here new bill annuities is nothrnk. Me and my 
pardner don't do no annuities now. It's giving money 
away ; and all this here money locked up ; and all to sarve 

* Well ; you will not help me,' said Ferdinand, rising. 

* Do you raly want fifteen hundred ? ' asked Mr. Levison. 

* By Jove I do.' 

* Well now, Captin, when is this marriage to come off ? ' 

* Have I not told you a thousand times, and Morris too, 
that my cousin is not to marry untU one year has passed 
since my grandfather's death. It is barely a year. But of 
course) at this moment, of all others, I cannot afford to be 

* Very true, Captin ; and we are the men to sarve you, if 
we could. But we cannot. Never was such times for 
money ; there is no seeing it. However, we will do what 
we can. Things is going very bad at Malta, and that's the 
truth. There's that young Catchimwhocan, we are in with 

A A 


him wery deep ; and now he has left the Fnsileers and got 
into Parliament, he don't care this for ns. K he would 
only pay ns, yon shonld have the money ; so help me, jou 

*Bnt he won't pay yon,' said Ferdinand. •What caa 
yon do?' 

* Why, I have a friend,' said Mr. Leyison, * who I know 
has got three hundred ponnd at his bankers, and he might 
lend it ns ; bnt we shaU have to pay for it.' 

I suppose so,' said Ferdinand. ' Well, three hundred.' 

* I have not got a shilling myself^' said Mr. Leyison. 

* Young Touchemup left us in the lurch yesterday for 750L, 
so help me, and never gave us no notice. Now, you are a 
gentleman, Gaptin ; you never pay, but you always give ti8 

Ferdinand could not help smiling at Mr. Levison's idea 
of a gentleman. 

* Well, what else can yon do ? ' 

* Why, there is two hundred coming in to-morrow,' said 
Mr. Levison ; ' I can depend on that.' 

* Well, that is five.' 

'And you want fifteen hundred,' said Mr. Levison. 
' Well, me and my pardner always like to sarve you, and it 
is very awkward certainly for you to want money at this 
moment. But if you want to buy jewels, I can get you 
any credit you like, you know.* 

* We will talk of that by and by,' said Ferdinand. 

' Fifteen hundred pound ! ' ejaculatiBd Mr. Levison. 

* Well, I suppose we must make it 7001. somehow or other, 
and you must take the rest in coals.' 

* Oh, by Jove, Levison, that is too bad.' 

*I don't see no other way,' said Mr. Levison, rather 

* But, damn it, my good fellow, my dear Levison, what 
the deuce am I to do with 800Z. worth of coals ? ' 


* Lord ! My dear Gaptm, 800Z. worth of coals is a mere 
nothink. With yoxir connection, you will get rid of them 
in a morning. All yon have got to do, yon know, is to 
give yonr friends an order on ns, and we will let you have 
cash at a little discount.' 

* Then you can let me have the cash now at a little dis- 
count, or even a great ; I cannot get rid of 800Z. worth of 

*Why, 'tayn't four hundred chaldron, Captin,' rejoined 
Mr. Levison. * Three or four friends would do the thing. 
Why, Baron Squash takes ten thousand chaldron of us 
every year ; but he has such a knack, he gits the Clubs to 
take them.' 

* Baron Squash, indeed ! Do you know whom you are 
talking to, Mr. Levison ? Do you think that I am going 
to turn into a coal merchant ? your working partner, by 
Jove ! No, sir ; give me the 7001., without the coals, and 
charge what interest you please.' 

* We could not do it, Captin. 'Tayn't our way.' 

* I ask you once more, Mr. Levison, will you let me have 
the money, or will you not ? ' 

^Now, Captin, don't be so high and mighty! 'Tayn't 
the way to do business. Me and my pardner wish to sarve 
you ; we does indeed. And if a hundred pound will be of 
any use to you, you shaU have it on your acceptance ; and 
we won't be curious about any name that draws ; we won't 

*Well, Mr. Levison,' said Ferdinand, rising, *I see we 
can do nothing to-day. The hundred pounds would be of 
no use to me. I will think over your proposition. Good 
morning to you.' 

* Ah, do ! ' said Mr. Levison, bowing and opening the 
door, * do, Captin ; we wish to sarve you, we does indeed. 
See how we behave about that arrears. Think of the 
coals ; now do. Now for a bargin ; come ! Come, Captin, 

A A 2 


I dare saj now yon could get ns the bnsiness of the Junior 
Sarvice Clnb ; and then yon shall have the seven hundred 
on yonr acceptance for three months, at two shilh'ngs in 
the ponnd ; come ! ' 



Ferdinand quitted his kind friend Mr. Levison in no very 
amiable mood ; but jast as he was leaving the house, a 
cabriolet, beantiftdly painted, of a brilliant green colour 
picked out with a somewhat cream-colonred white, and 
drawn by a showy Holstein horse of tawny tint, wiih a 
flowing and milk-white tail and mane, and caparisoned in 
harness almost as precious as Mr. Levison's sideboard, 
dashed up to the door. 

'Armine, by Jove!' exclaimed the driver, with great 

* Ah ! Catch, is it you ? ' said Ferdinand. 

* What ! have you been here ? ' said Lord Cafcctoa- 
whocan. * At the old work, eh ? Is " me and my pard- 
ner" troublesome? for your countenance is not very 

*By Jove, old fellow!' said Ferdinand, in a depressed 
tone, * I am in a scrape, and also in a rage. Nothing is to 
be done here.' 

* Never mind,' said his lordship ; * keep up your spirits, 
jump into my cab, and we will see how we can carry on the 
war. I am only going to speak one word to " me and my 
pardner." ' 

So saying, his lordship skipped into the house as gay as 


a lark, although he had a bill for a good ix)und sum about 
to be dishonoured in the course of a few hours. 

*Well, my dear Armine/ he resumed, when he re- 
appeared and took the reins ; * now as I drive along, tell 
me all about it ; for if there be a man in the world whom I 
should like to " sarve," it is thyself, my noble Ferdinand.' 

With this encouragement, Captain Armino was not long 
in pouidng his cares into a congenial bosom. 

' I know the man to " sarve" you,' said Qatchimwhocan. 
* The fact is, these fellows here are regular old-fashioned 
humbugs. The only idea they have is money, money. 
They have no enlightened notions. I will introduce you to 
a regular trump ; and if he does not do our business, I am 
much mistaken. Courage, old fellow ! How do you Hk© 
this start ? ' 

* Deuced neat. By the bye, Catch, my boy, you are 
going it rather, I see.* 

* To be sure. I have always told you there is a certain 
system in affairs which ever prevents men being floored. 
No fellow is ever dished who has any connection. What 
man that ever had his run was really ever fairly put hors 
de combatj unless he was some one who ought never to have 
entered the arena, blazing away without any set, making 
himself a damned fool and everybody his enemy. So long 
as a man bustles about and is in a good set, something 
always turns up. I got into Parliament you see ; and you, 
yon are going to be married.' 

All this time the cabriolet was dashing down Regent- 
street, twisting through the Quaditint, whirling along Pall 
Mall, until it finally entered Cleveland-row, and stopped 
before a newly painted, newly pointed, and exceedingly 
compact mansion, the long brass knocker of whose dark 
green door sounded beneath the practised touch of his 
lordship's tiger. Even the tawny Holstcin horse, with the 
white flowing mane, seemed conscious of the locality, and 


stopped before the accnstomed resting-place in the most 
natural manner imaginable. A tall serving-man, well 
powdered, and in a dark and well-appointed livery, imme- 
diately appeared. 

* At home ? * enquired Lord Catchimwhocan, with a 
peculiarly confidential expression. 

* To you, my lord,' responded the attendant. 

' Jump out, Armine,' said his lordship ; and they entered 
the house. 

' Alone ? ' said his lordship. 

* Not alone,' said the servant, ushering the Mends into 
the dining-room, ' but he shaU have your lordship's card 
immediately. There are several gentlemen waiting in the 
third drawing-room ; so I have shown your lordship in 
here, and shall take care that he sees your lordship before 

^ That's a devilish good feUow,' said Lord Catchimwhocan, 
putting his hand into his waistcoat pocket to give him a 
sovereign ; but not finding one, he added, ' I shall remem^ 
ber you.' 

The dining-room into which they were shown was at the 
back of the house, and looked into agreeable gardens. 
The apartment was in some little confusion at this moment, 
for their host gave a dinner to-day, and his dinners were 
&mous. The table was arranged for eight guests ; its ap- 
pointments indicated refined taste. A candelabra of Dresden 
china was the centre piece ; there was a whole service of 
the same material, even to the handles of the knives and 
forks ; and the choice variety of glass attracted Ferdinand's 
notice. The room was lofty and spacious ; it was simply 
and soberly furnished ; not an object which could distract 
the taste or disturb the digestion. But the sideboard, 
which filled a recess at the end of the apartment, presented 
a crowded group of gold plate that might have become a 
palace; magnificent shields, tall vases, ancient tankards. 


goblets of carved ivory set in precious metal, and cups of 
old ruby glass mounted on pedestals, glittering with gems. 
This accidental display certainly offered an amusing con- 
trast to the perpetual splendour of Mr. Levison's beaufet ; 
and Ferdinand was wondering whether it would turn out 
that there was as marked a difference between the two 
owners, when his companion and himself were summoned 
to the presence of Mr. Bond Sharpe. 

They ascended a staircase perfumed with flowers, and 
on each landing-place was a classic tripod or pedestal 
crowned with a bust. And then they were ushered into a 
drawing-room of Parisian elegance ; buhl cabinets, marque- 
terie tables, hangings of the choicest damask suspended 
from burnished cornices of* old carving. The chairs had 
been rifled from a Venetian palace ; the couches were part 
of the spoils of the IVench revolution. There were glass 
screens in golden frames, and a clock that represented the 
death of Hector, the chariot wheel of Achilles conveniently 
telling the hotlr. A round table of mosaic, mounted on a 
golden pedestal, was nearly covered with papers ; and from 
an easy-chair, supported by air cosHons, half rose to 
welcome them Mr. Bond Sharpe. He was a man not many 
years the senior of Captain Armine and his friend; of 
elegant appearance, pale, pensive, and prepossessing. Deep 
thought was impressed upon his clear and protruding brow, 
and the expression of his grey sunk eyes, which were 
delicately arched, was singularly searching. His figure 
was slight but compact. His dress plain, but a model in 
its £Bishion. He was habited entirely in black, and his only 
ornament were his studs, which were turquoise and of great 
size : but there never were such boots, so brilliant and so 
small ! 

He welcomed Lord Catchimwhocan in a voice scarcely 
above a whisper, and received Captain Armine in a manner 
alike graceful and dignified. 


* My dear Sliarpe,' said his lordship, * I am going to in- 
troduce to you my most particular friend, and an old 
brother officer. This is Captain Armine, the only son of 
Sir Ba.tcli£re, and the heir of Armine Castle. He is going 
to be married very soon to his cousin, Miss Grandison, tbe 
greatest heiress in England.' 

' Hush, hush,' said Ferdinand, shrinking under this false 
i*epresentation, and Mr. Sharpe with considerate delicacy 
endeavoured to check his lordship. 

* Well, never mind, I will say nothing about that,' con- 
tinued Lord Catchimwhocan. ' The long and the short of 
it is this, that my friend Armine is hard up, and we must 
carry on the war till we get into winter quarters. You 
are just the man for him, and- by Jove, my dear Sharpe, if 
you wish sensibly to oblige me, who I am sure am one of 
your warmest friends, you will do everything for Annine 
that human energy can possibly effect.' 

*What is the present difficulty that you have?' en- 
quired Mr. Sharpe of our hero, in a caJm whisper. 

* Why, the present difficulty that he has,' said Lord 
Catchimwhocan, * is that he wants 1,500Z.' 

* I suppose you have raised money. Captain Armine ? ' 
said Mr. Sharpe. 

* Li every way,* said Captain Armine. 

* Of course,' said Mr. Sliarpe, * at your time of life one 
naturally does. And I suppose you are bothered for this 

* I am threatened with immediate arrest, and arrest in 

* Who is the party ? ' 

* Why, I fear an unmanageable one, even by you. It is 
a house at Malta.* 

* Mr. Bolus, I suppose ? ' 

* Exactly.' 

* I thought so.' 


* Well, what can be done ? ' said Lord Catchimwhocan. 

' Oh ! there is no diflficulty,* said Mr. Sharpe quietly. 

* Captain Armine can have any money he likes.' 

'I shall be happy,' said Captain Armine, *to pay any 
consideration you think fit.' 

* Oh ! my dear sir, I cannot think of that. Money is a 
drug now. I shall be happy to accommodate you without 
giving you any trouble. You can have the 1,500Z., if you 
please, this moment.' 

* Really, you are very generous,' said Ferdinand, much 
surprised, * but I feel I am not entitled to such favours. 
What securiiy can I give you ? ' 

* I lend the money to you. I want no security. You 
can repay me when you like. Give me your note of hand.' 
So saying, Mr. Sharpe opened a drawer, and taking out his 
cheque-book drew a draft for the 1,500Z. *I believe I 
have a stamp in the house,' he continued, looking about. 

* Yes, here is one. If you will fill this up, Captain Armine, 
the affair may be concluded at once.' 

* Upon my honour, Mr. Sharpe,' said Ferdinand, very 
confused, ' I do not like to appear insensible to this extra- 
ordinary kindness, but really I came here by the merest 
accident, and without any intention of soliciting or re- 
ceiving such favours. And my kind friend here has given 
you much too glowing an account of my resources. It is 
very probable I shall occasion you great inconvenience.' 

* Really, Captain Armine,' said Mr. Sharpe with a slight 
smile, * if we were talking of a sum of any importance, why, 
one might be a little more punctilious, but for such a baga- 
telle we have already wasted too much time in its discus- 
sion. I am happy to serve you.' 

Ferdinand stared, remembering Mr. Levison and the 
coals. Mr. Sharpe himself drew up the note, and presented 
it to Ferdinand, who signed it and pocketed the draft. 

*I have several gentlemen waiting,* said Mr. Bond 


Sharpe ; ' I am sorry I cannot take this opportunity of cal^ 
tivating your acquaintance, Captain Armine, but I shouL^ 
esteem it a great honour if you would dine with me to-da^^^ 
Your friend Lord Catchimwhocan favours me with 
company, and you might meet a person or two who woi 
amuse you.' 

* I really shall be very happy,' said Ferdinand. 
And Mr. Bond Sharpe again slightly rose and bowed 

them out of the room. 

* Well, is not he a trump ? ' said Lord Gatcbimwhocan, 
when they were once more in the cab. 

' I am so astonished,' said Ferdinand, ' that I cannot 
speak. Who in the name of fortune is this great man ? ' 

'A genius,' said Lord Catchimwhocan. 'Don't 70a 
think he is a deuced good-looking fellow ? ' 

* The best-looking fellow I ever saw,' said the grateful 

' And capital manners ? ' 
' Most distinguished.' 

* Neatest dressed man in town ! ' 
' Exquisite taste ! ' 

* What a house ! ' 

* Did you ever see such furniture ? It beats your roomfl 
at Malta.' 

* I never saw anything more complete in my life.' 

* What plate ! ' 

* Miraculous ! ' 

* And believe me we shall have the best dinner in town.' 
'Well, he has given me an appetite,' said Ferdinand. 

' But who is he ? ' 

* Why, by business he is what is called a conveyancer ; 
that is to say, he is a lawyer by inspiration.' 

* He is a wonderftd man,' said Ferdinand. * He must be 
very rich.' 


* Yes ; Sharpe mnst be worth his quarter of a millioiL 
.And he has made it in such a denced short tune ! ' 

* Why, he is not mnch older than we are ! * 

* Ten years ago that man was a prizefighter/ said Lord 

* A prizefighter ! ' exclaimed Ferdinand. 

* Tes ; and licked everybody. But he was too great a 
genins for the ring, and took to the tnrf.' 


* Then he set np a hell.' 

'And then he turned it into a subscription-honse.' 

* He keeps his hell still, but it works itself now. In the 
mean time he is the first nsnrer in the world, and will be 
in ihe next Parliament.' 

^ But if he lends money on the terms he accommodates 
me, he will hardly increase his fortnne.' 

^ Oh ! he can do the thing when he likes. He took a 
j&ncy to you. The &ct is, my dear fellow, Sharpe is very 
rich and wants to get into society. He likes to oblige 
young men of distinction, and can afford to risk a few 
thousands now and then. By dining with him to-day you 
hftve quite repaid him for his loan. Besides, the fellow 
has a great soxQ ; and, though bom on a dung-hQl, nature 
intended him for a palace, and he has placed himself 

^ Well, this has been a remarkable morning,' said Ferdi- 
nand Armine, as Lord Catchimwhocan set him down at his • 
dab. * I am very much obliged to you, dear Catch ! ' 

*Not a word, my dear fellow. You have helped me 
before this, and glad am I to be the means of assisting the 
best fellow in the world, and that we all think you. Au 
revoir ! We dine at eight.' 




In the meantime, while the gloomy morning which Ferdf. 
nand had anticipated terminated with so agreeahle an 
adventure, Henrietta and Miss Grandison, accompanied hj 
Lord Montfort and Glastonbury, paid their promised visit 
to the British Museum. 

' I am sorry that Captain Armine coxQd not accompany 
us,' said Lord Montfort. ' I sent to him this morning early, 
but h3 was already out.' 

' He has many affairs to attend to,' said Glastonbury. 

Miss Temple looked grave ; she thought of poor Ferdi- 
nand and all his cares. She knew well what were those 
affairs to which Glastonbury alluded. The thought that 
perhaps at this moment he was struggling with rapacions 
creditors made her melancholy. The novelty and strange- 
ness of the objects which awaited her, diverted, howeyer, 
her mind from these painful reflections. Miss Grandison, 
who had never quitted England, was delighted with every- 
thing she saw ; but the Egyptian gallery principally at- 
tracted the attention of Miss Temple. Lord Montfort, 
regardful of his promise to Henrietta, was very attentiv» 
to Miss Grandison. 

* I cannot help regretting that your cousin is not herr 
said his lordship, returning to a key that he had alrea 
touched. But Elatherine made no answer. 

' He seemed so much better for the exertion he w 
yesterday,' resumed Lord Montfort. * I think it woulf 
him good to be more with us.' 

^ He seems to like to be alone,' said Katherine. 

* I wonder at that,' said Lord Montfort ; * I canno^ 
ceive a happier life than we all lead.' 

A LOVE STORY. . 365 

' You have cause to be happy, and Ferdinand has not,* 
^^d Miss Grandison, calmly. 

*I should have thought that he had very great cause,' 
^aid Lord Montfort, enquiringly. 

* No person in the world is so unhappy as Ferdinand,' 
Baid Katherine. 

* But cannot we cure his unhappiness ? ' said his lord- 
ship. *We are his friends; it seems to me, with such 
£iends as Miss Grandison and Miss Temple one ought 
never to be unhappy.' 

' Miss Temple can scarcely be called a friend of Ferdi- 
nand,' said Elatherine. 

* Indeed a very warm one, I assure you.' 
*Ah, that is your influence.' 

* Nay, it is her own impulse.' 

* But she only met him yesterday for the first time.' 

* I assure you Miss Temple is an older friend of Captain 
Armine than I am,' said his lordship. 

' Indeed! ' said Miss Grandison, with an air of consider- 
able astonishment. 

* Ton know they were neighbours in the country.' 

* In the country ! ' repeated Miss Grandison. 

*Tes; Mr. Temple, you know, resided not far from 

' Not fiEur from Armine ! ' still repeated Miss Grandison. 

* Digby,' said Miss Temple, turning to him at this mo- 
ment, * tell Mr. Glastonbury about your sphinx at Home. 
It was granite, was it not ? ' 

'And most delicately carved. I never remember having 
observed an expression of such beautiful serenity. The 
discovery that, after all, they are male countenances is 
quite mortifying. I loved their mysterious beauty.' 

What Lord Montfort had mentioned of the previous 
acquaintance of Henrietta and her cousin made Miss 
Chrandison muse. Miss Temple's address to Ferdinand 


yesterday had struck her at the moment as somewhs 
singnlar; but the impression had not dwelt upon hi 
mind. But now it occurred to her as very strange, tk_^ 
Henrietta should have become so intimate with the Armixi.^ 
£ainily and herself, and never have mentioned that she wajsr 
previously acquainted with their nearest relative. Ladjr 
Armine was not acquainted with Miss Temple until ihe^ 
met at Bellair House. That was certain. Miss Grandison 
had witnessed their mutual introduction. Nor Sir Bat- 
cliffe. And yet Henrietta and Ferdinand were Mends, 
warm Mends, old Mends, intimately acquainted: so said 
Lord Montfort, and Lord Montfort never coloured, never 
exaggerated. All this was very mysterious. And if they 
were Mends, old Mends, warm Mends, and Lord Montfort 
said they were, and, therefore, there could be no doubt of 
the truth of the statement, their recognition of each other 
yesterday was singularly Mgid. It was not indicative of a 
very intimate acquaintance. Elatherine had ascribed it to 
the natural disrelish of Ferdinand now to be introduced 
to anyone. And yet they were Mends, old Mends, warm 
Mends. Henrietta Temple and Ferdinand Armine ! Miss 
Grandison was so perplexed that she scarcely looked at 
another object in the galleries. 

The ladies were rather tired when they returned from 
the Museum. Lord Montfort walked to the Travellers, and 
Henrietta agreed to remain and dine in Brook-street. 
Katherine and herself retired to Miss Grrandison's boudoir, 
a pretty chamber, where they were sure of being alone. 
Henrietta threw herself upon a sofa, and took up the last 
new novel ; Miss Grandison seated herself on an ottoman 
by her side, and worked at a purse which she was making 
for Mr. Temple. 

* Do you like that book ? * said Katherine. 

* I like the lively parts, but not the serious ones,' replied 
Miss Temple ; * the author has observed but he has not felt' 


tt is satirical,' said Hiss Grandison ; ' I wonder why all 
class of writers aim now at the sarcastic. I do not 

life the constant sneer they make it.' 
It is becanse they do not understand life,' said Hen- 
ba^ ^ bat have some little experience of society. There- 
» their works give a perverted impression of human 
dnct ; for they accept as a principal, that which is only 
insignificant accessory ; and they make existence a snc- 
^on of frivolities, when even the career of the most 
^lons has its profonnder moments.' 

How vivid is the writer's description of a ball or a 
iner,' said Miss Grandison; ' everything lives and moves, 
d yet, when the hero makes love, nothing can be more 
DatnraL His feelings are neither deep, nor ardent, nor 
der. All is stilted, and yet Indicrons.' 
I do not despise the talent which describes so vividly a 
ner and a ball,' said Miss Temple. ' As fer as it goes it 
reiy amusing, but it should be combined with higher 
berials. In a fine novel, manners should be observed, 
'. morals should be sustained ; we require thought and 
BiOii, as well as costome and the lively representation 
ionventional arrangements ; and the thought and passion 
i be the better for these accessories, for they will be 
eved in the novel as they are relieved in life, and the 
)le wOl be more true.' 

Bui have you read that love scene, Henrietta? It 
eaied to me so ridiculous ! ' 
I never read love scenes,' said Henrietta Temple. 
Oh, I love a love story,' said Miss Grandison, smiling, 
it be natural and tender, and touch my heart. When I 
1 such scenes, I weep.' 

Ah, my sweet Katherine, you are sofb-hearted.' 
And yon, Henrietta, what are you ? ' 
Haid-hearted. The most callous of mortals.' 
(Hi, what would Lord Montfort say ? ' 


* Lord Montfort knows it. We never have love scenes^ '^ 

* And yet you love liim ? ' 

* Dearly ; I love and esteem him.' 

* Well/ said Miss Grandison, * I may be wrong, but iP ^ 
were a man I do not think I should like the lady of rxiy 
love to esteem me.' 

'And yet esteem is the only genuine basis of happiness, 
believe me, Elate. Love is a dream.' 

* And how do you know, dear Henrietta ? * 

* All writers agree it is.* 

* The writers you were just ridiculing ? ' 

' A fair retort ; and yet, though your words are the most 
witty, believe me, mine are the most wise.' 

' I wish my cousin would wake from his dream,' said 
Elatherine. * To tell you a secret, love is the cause of his 
unhappiness. Don't move, dear Henrietta,' added Miss 
Grandison ; * we are so happy here ; ' for Miss Temple, in 
truth, seemed not a little discomposed. 

* You should marry your cousin,' said Miss Temple. 

* You little know Ferdinand or myself, when you give 
that advice,' said Elatherine. *We shall never marry; 
nothing is more certain than that. In the first place, to be 
frank, Ferdinand would not marry me, nothing wotdd 
induce him ; and in the second place, I would not many 
him, nothing would induce me.' 

* Why not ? ' said Henrietta, in a low tone, holding her 
book very near to her face. 

* Because I am sure that we should not be happy,' said 
Miss Grandison. ' I love Ferdinand, and once could have 
married him. He is so brilliant that I could not refuse his 
proposal. And yet I feel it is better for me that we have 
not married, and I hope it may yet prove better for him, 
for I love him very dearly. He is indeed my brother.' 

' But why should you not be happy ? ' enquired Miss 


* Because w e are not Buited to each other. Ferdinand 
^^st marry some one whom he looks up to, somebody 
)nlliant hke himself, some one who can sympathise with 
"1 his fancies. I am too calm and quiet for him. You 
'"^ould suit him much better, Henrietta.' 

You are his cousin ; it is a misfortune ; if you were 
^ot, he would adore you, and you would sympathise with 

* I think not : I should like to marry a very clever man,' 
'^d Katherine. * I could not endure marrying a fool, or a 
^Bamon-place person ; I should like to marry a person very 
'^perior in talent to myself, some one whose opinion would 
nude me on all points, one firom whom I could not differ. 
8ut not Ferdinand ; he is too imaginative, too impetuous ; 
^6 Would neither guide me, nor be guided by me.' 

Miss Temple did not reply, but turned over a page of 

* Did you know Ferdinand before you met him yester- 
*«y at our house ? ' enquired Miss Grandison, very in- 

'Yes! ' said Miss Temple. 

* I thought you did,' said Miss Grandison. * I thought 
here was something in your manner that indicated you 
ad met before. I do not think you knew my aunt before 
on met her at Bellair House ? ' 

* I did not.' 

* Nor Sir Ratcliffe ? ' 

* Nor Sir RatcHffe.' 

* But you did know Mr. Glastonbuiy ? ' 

* I did know Mr. Glastonbury.' 

* How very odd ! ' said Miss Grandison. 

* What is odd ? ' enquired Henrietta. 

* That you should have known Ferdinand before' 

*Not at all odd. He came over one day to shoot at papa's, 
remember him very well.' 

B B 



* Oh,' said Miss Grandison. * And did Mr. Glastonbury 
oome over to shoot ? ' 

' I met Mr. Glastonbmy one morning that I went to see 
the picture gallery at Armine. It is the only time I ever 
saw him.' 

' Oh ! ' said Miss Grandison again, 'Armine is a heauti^ 
place, is it not ? ' 

' Most interesting.' 

' Yon know the pleasannoe.' 


* I did not see you when I was at Armine.' 
' No ; we had just gone to Italy.' 

' How beantifnl yon look to-day, Henrietta ! ' said MiflS 
Grandison. * Who conld believe that you ever were flo 

' I am grateful that I have recovered,' said Henrietta. 
' And yet I never thought that I shoxQd return to England.' 

^ You must have been so very iU in Italy, about the same 
time as poor Ferdinand was at Armine. Only think, liow 
odd you should both have been so ill about the same tbofi) 
and now that we should all be so intimate ! ' 

Miss Temple looked perplexed and annoyed. ' Is it 80 
odd ? ' she at length said in a low tone. 

'Henrietta Temple,' said Miss Grandison, with grpat 
earnestness, * 1 have discovered a secret ; you are the lac^ 
with whom my cousin is in love.' 





B£K Ferdinand arrived at Mr. Bond Sharpe's, he was 
loomed by liis host in a magnificent suite of saloons, and 
reduced to two of the guests who had previously arrived. 
6 first was a stout man, past middle age, whose epicu- 
Ji countenance twinkled with humour. This was Lord 
stlefyshe, an Irish peer of great celebrity in the world of 
nuy and play, keen at a bet, still keener at a dinner, 
body exactly knew who the other gentleman, Mr. Bland- 
d, really was, but he had the reputation of being enor- 
nsly rich, and was proportionately respected. He had 
m about town for the last tweniy years, and did not look 
lay older than at his first appearance. He never spoke 
his &mily, was unmarried, and apparently had no rela- 
ns; but he had contrived to identify himself with the 
it men in London, was a member of every club of great 
mte, and of late years had even become a sort of 
iluniiy ; which was strange, for he had no pretension, 
8 very quiet, and but humbly ambitious; seeking, indeed, 
liappier success than to merge in the bnlliant crowd, 
accepted atom of the influential aggregate. As he was 
' remarkable for his talents or his person, and as his 
aUishment, though well appointed, offered no singular 
sudour, it was rather strange that a gentleman who had 
iQrently dropped from the clouds, or crept out of a 
iHel, should have succeeded in planting himself so 
c^rously in a soil which shrinks from anything not in- 
dnous, unless it be recommended by very powerful 
Uties. But Mr. Blandford was good-tempered, and 
' now easy and experienced, and there was a vague 

BB 2 


tradition that lie was immensely rich, a rumour wMcli Mr. 
Blandford always contradicted in a manner which skilfttUy 
confirmed its truth. 

* Does Mirabel dine with you, Sharpe ? ' enquired Lord 
Castlcfyshe of his host, who nodded assent. 

' You won't wait for him, I hope ? ' said his lordsbip. 

* By the bye, Blandford, you shirked last night.' 

* I promised to look in at the poor duke's before he went 
off,' said Mr. Blandford. 

' Oh ! he has gone, has he ? ' said Lord Castlefyshe. 

* Does he take his cook with him ? ' 

But here the servant ushered in Count Alcibiades de 
Mirabel, Charles Doricourt, and Mr. Bevil. 

' Excellent Sharpe, how do you do ? ' exclaimed the 
Count. * Castlefyshe, what bStises have you been talldng 
to Crocky about Felix Winchester ? Good Blandford, ex- 
cellent Blandford, how is my good Blandford ? ' 

Mr. Bevil was a tall and handsome young man, of & 
great family and great estate, who passed his life in an 
imitation of Count Alcibiades de Mirabel. He was always 
dressed by the same tailor, and it was his pride that bis 
cab or his vis-a-vis was constantly mistaken for the equi- 
page of his model; and really now, as the shade stood 
beside its substance, quite as tall, almost as good-looldiigi 
with the satin-lined coat thrown open with the same style 
of flowing grandeur, and revealing a breastplate of starched 
cambric scarcely less broad and brilliant, the uninitiated 
might have held the resemblance as perfect. The wrist- 
bands were turned up with not less compact precision, and 
were fastened by jewelled studs, that glittered with notless 
radiancy. The satin waistcoat, the creaseless hosen, were 
the sanio; and if the foot were not quite as Email, its 
Parisian polish was not less bright. But here, unfor- 
tunately, Mr. Bevil's mimetic powers deserted him. 

We start, for soul is wanting there! 


^e Count Mirabel conld talk at all times, and at all times 
rell ; Mr. Bevil never opened his mouth. Practised in the 
fopld, the Connt Mirabel was nevertheless the child of 
Impulse, though a native grace, and an intuitive knowledge 
f mankind, made every word pleasing and every act 
ppropriate ; Mr. Bevil was all art, and he had not the 
a-Ient to conceal it. The Count Mirabel was gay, careless, 
enerons ; Mr. Bevil was solemn, calculating, and rather a 
2rew. It seemed that the Count Mirabel's feelings grew 
*3y more fresh, and his faculty of enjoyment more keen 
id relishing ; it seemed that Mr. Bevil could never have 
3en a child, but that he must have issued to the world 
^j equipped, like Minerva, with a cane instead of a 
Qce, and a fancy hat instead of a helmet. His essence of 
gfh breeding was never to be astonished, and he never 
rmitted himself to smile, except in the society of intimate 

Charles Doricourt was another friend of the Count 
rabel, but not his imitator. His feelings were really 
m, but it was a fisust he always concealed. He had 
ered life at a remarkably early age, and had experienced 
Ty scrape to which youthful flesh is heir. Any other 
n bat Charles Doricourt must have sunk beneath these 
nnmlated disasters, but Charles Doricourt always swam. 
tore had given him an intrepid soul ; experience had 
ed his heart with iron. But he always smiled ; and 
lacious, cool, and cutting, and very easy, he thoroughly 
pised mankind, upon whose weaknesses he practised 
.hont remiorse. But he was poHshed and amusing, and 
ihfiil to his friends. The world admired him, and called 
1 Charley, from which it will be inferred that he was a 
vileged person, and was applauded for a thousand 
ions, which in anyone else would have been met with 
dded reprobation. 
YiTho is that young man ? ' enquired the Count Mirabel 


of Mr. Bond Sharpe, taking his host aside, and pretending 
to look at a picture. 

^He is Captain Armine, the. only son of Sir BatcMe 
Armine. He has just returned to England affcer a long 

' Hum ! I like his appearance/ said the Count. ^ It is 
very distinguished;' 

Dinner and Lord Catchimwhocan were announced at the 
same moment ; Captain Armine found himself seated next 
to the Count MirabeL The dinners at Mr. Bond Sharpe's 
were dinners which his guests came to eat. Mr. Bond 
Sharpe had engaged for his club-house the most celebrated 
of Uving artists, a gentleman who, it was said, receiyed a 
thousand a-year, whose convenience was studied b^ a 
chariot, and amusement secured by a box at the Erench 
play. There was, therefore, at first little conversafciaii, 
save criticism on the performances before them, and that 
chiefly panegyrical ; each dish was delicious, each "wine 
exquisite ; and yet, even in these occasional remarks, Fer- 
dinand was pleased with the lively fimqy of his neighboni, 
affording an elegant contrast to the somewhat gross unction 
with which Lord Castlefyshe, whose very soul seemed 
wrapped up in his occupation, occasionally expressed him- 

' Will you take some wine. Captain Armine ? ' said the 
Count Mirabel, with a winning smile. * You. have recently 
returned here ? ' 

* Very recently,' said Ferdinand. 

* And you are glad ? ' 

* As it may be, I hardly know whether to rejoice or noi' 

* Then, by all means rejoice,' said the Count ; * for, if you 
are in doubt, it surely must be best to decide upon being 

' I think this is the most infernal country there ever was,' 
said Lord Catchimwhocan. 


My dear Catcli ! ' said the Count Mirabel, * yoa think 
do jon? Yon make a mistake, yon think no such 
ng, my dear Catch. Why is it the most infernal? Is 
becanse the women are the handsomest, or because the 
•ses are the best ? Is it becanse it is the only country 
m you can get a good dinner, or because it is the only 
ntpy where there are fine wines ? Or is it because it is 
only place where you can get a coat made, or where 
can play without being cheated, or where you can 
m to an opera without your ears being destroyed ? 
(T, my dear Catch, you pass your life in dressing and in 
ing hazard, in eating good dinners, in drinking good 
)B, in making loye, in going ta the opera, and in riding 
horses. Of what then have you to complain ? ' 
)h ! the damned climate ! ' 

hi the contrary, it is the only good climate there is. In 
land you can go out every day, and at aU hours ; and 
, to those who love variety, like myself, you are not 
of seeing the same sky every morning you rise, which, 
ly part, I think the greatest of all existing sources of 

Ton reconcile me to my CQuntry, Count,' said Ferdinand, 

Lh ! you are a sensible man ; but that dear Catch is 
ys repeating nonsense which he hears from somebody 
To-morrow,' he added, in a low voice, * he will be for 

le conversation of men, when they congregate together, 
meraUy dedicated to one of two subjects : politics or 
an. In the present instance the party was not poli- 
; and it was the fair sex, and particularly the most 
mi-ng portion of it, in the good metropolis of England, 
were subject to the poignant criticism or the profound 
ilation of these practical philosophers. There was 
ioly a celebrated beauty in London, frem the proud 


peeress to the vain opera-dancer, whose charms and con- 
duct were not submitted to their masterly analysis. And 
yet it would be but fair to admit that their critical ability 
was more eminent and satisfactory than their abstract 
reasoning upon this interesting topic ; for it was curious to 
observe that, though everyone present piqued himself upon 
his profound knowledge of the sex, not two of the sages 
agreed in the constituent principles of female character. 
One declared that women were governed by their feelings; 
another maintained that they had no heart ; a third pro- 
pounded that it was all imagination ; a fourth that it was 
all vanity. Lord Castlefyshe muttered something about 
their passions ; and Charley Doricourt declared that they 
had no passions whatever. But they all agreed in one 
thing, to wit, that the man who permitted himself a 
moment's uneasiness about a woman was a fool. 

All this time Captain Armine spoke little, but ever to 
the purpose, and chiefly to the Count Mirabel, who pleased 
him. Being very handsome, and, moreover, of a distin- 
guished appearance, this silence on the part of Ferdinand 
made him a general favourite, and even Mr. Bevil whispered 
his approbation to Lord Catchimwhocan. 

* The fact is,' said Charles Doricourt, * it is only boys and 
old men who are plagued by women. They take advantage 
of either state of childhood. Eh ! Castlefyshe ? ' 

* In that respect, then, somewhat resembling you, Charley,* 
replied his lordship, who did not admire the appeal. * For 
no one can doubt you plagued your father ; I was out of my 
teens, fortunately, before you played 6cart^.' 

* Come, good old Fyshe,' said Count Mirabel, * take a 
glass of claret, and do not look so fierce. You know veiy 
well that Charley learnt everything of you.* 

* He never learned from me to spend a fortune upon an 
actress,' said his lordship. * I have spent a fortune, but, 
thank heaven, it was on myself.' 


*Well, as for that,' said the Count, *I think there is 
something great in being mined for one's friends. K I 
were as rich as I might have been, I would not spend much 
on myself. My wants are few ; a fine house, fine carriages, 
fine horses, a complete wardrobe, the best opera-box, the 
first cook, and pocket-money ; that is all I require. I have 
these, and I get on pretty well ; but if I had a princely for- 
tune I would make every good-fellow I know quite happy.* 

* Well,' said Charles Doricourt, * you are a lucky fellow, 
Mirabel. I have had horses, houses, can*Iages, opera-boxes, 
and cooks, and I have had a great estate ; but pocket-money 
I never could get. Pocket-money was the thing which 
always cost me the most to buy of all.' 

The conversation now fell upon the theatre. Mr. Bond 
Sharpe was determined to have a theatre. He believed 
it was reserved for him to revive the drama. Mr. Bond 
Sharpe piqued himself apon his patronage of the stage. 
He certainly had a great admiration of actresses. There 
was something in the management of a great theatre which 
pleased the somewhat imperial fancy of Mr. Bond Sharpe. 
The manager of a great theatre is a kind of monarch. Mr. 
Bond Sharpe longed to seat himself on the throne, with 
the prettiest women in London for his court, and aU his 
fashionable friends rallying round their sovereign. He had 
an impression that great results might be obtained with 
his organising energy and illimitable capital. Mr. Bond 
Sharpe had unbounded confidence in the power of capital. 
Capital was his deity. He was confident that it could 
always produce alike genius and triumph. Mr. Bond 
Sharpe was right : capital is a wonderM thing, but we are 
scarcely aware of this fact until we are past thirty ; and 
tiien, by some singular process, which we will not now stop 
to analyse, one's capital is in general sensibly diminished. 
As men advance in life, all passions resolve themselves into 
money. Love, ambition, even poetry, end in this. 




«i^^t^l^Si^^'L'^*«'** ^-? 

■JO* *v*b "S- "** «\v tverv<*' -Jo* - , agox " 














,teti«'®^ ,£ott«3 



be essentiallj independent of it. He wlio feels tliat tlie 
^eatest source of pleasure always remains to him ouglit 
never to be miserable. Tbe sun shines on all : every man 
can go to sleep : if you cannot ride a fine horse, it is some- 
thing to look upon one ; if you have not a fine dinner, there 
is some amusement in a crust of bread and Gruyere. Feel 
slightly, think little, never plan, never brood. Everything 
depends upon the circulation ; take care of it. Take the 
world as you find it ; enjoy everything. Vive la bagatelle ! ' 
Here the gentlemen rose, took their coffee, and ordered 
their carriages. 

' Come with us,' said Count Mirabel to Ferdinand. 
Our hero accepted the offer of his agreeable acquaintance. 
There was a great prancing and rushing of cabs and vis-a- 
vis at Mr. Bond Sharpens door, and in a few minutes the 
whole party were dashing up St. James'-street, where they 
stopped before a splendid building, resplendent with lights 
and illuminated curtains. 

* Come, we will make you an honorary member, mon cher 
Captain Armine,' said the Count; 'and do not say. Oh! 
lasdate ogni spercmza, when you enter here.' 

They ascended a magnificent staircase, and entered a 
sumptuous and crowded saloon, in which the entrance of 
Gount Mirabel and his friends made no little sensation. 
Mr. Bond Sharpe glided along, dropping oracular sen- 
tences, without condescending to stop to speak to those 
whom he addressed. Charley Doricourt and Mr. Blandford 
walked away together towards a fiuiher apartment. Lord 
Castlefyshe and Lord Catchimwhocan were soon busied 
with 6cart6. 

* Well, Faneville, good general, how do you do ? ' said 
Count Mirabel. 'Where have you dined to-day? at the 
BfJcombes' ? You are a very brave man, mon general ! 
Ah ! Stock, good Stock, excellent Stock ! ' he continued, 
addressing Mr. Million de Stockville, * that Burgundy you 


• sent me is capital. How are you, my dear fellow ? Quite 
well ? Fitzwarrene, I did that for you : your business is 
all right. Ah! my good Massey, mon cher, mon brave, 
Anderson will let you have that horse. And what is doing 
here ? Is there any fun? Fitzwarrene, let me introduce 
you to my friend Captain Armine : ' (in a lower tone) 
* excellent gar9on ! You will like him very much. We 
have been all dining at Bond's.' 

* A good dinner ? ' 

* Of course a good dinner. I should like to see a man 
who would give me a bad dinner : that would be a betise, 
to ask me to dine, and then give me a bad dinner.' 

* I say, Mirabel,' exclaimed a young man, * have you seen 
Horace Poppington about the match ? * 

* It is arranged ; 'tis the day after to-morrow, at nine 

* Well, I bet on you, you know.' 

* Of course you bet on me. Would you think of betting 
on that good Pop, with that gun ? Pah ! Eh I bien ! I 
shall go in the next room.' And the Count walked away, 
followed by Mr. Bevil. 

Ferdinand remained talking for some time with Lord 
Fitzwarrene. By degrees the great saloon had become 
somewhat thinner : some had stolen away to the House, 
where a division was expected ; quiet men, who just looked 
in after dinner, had retired ; and the play-men were en- 
gaged in the contiguous apartments. Mr. Bond Sharpe 
approached Ferdinand, and Lord Fitzwarrene took this 
opportuniiy of withdrawing. 

* I believe you never play. Captain Armine,' said Mr. 
Bond Sharpe. 

' Never,' said Ferdinand. 

* You are quite right.' 

* I am rather surprised at your being of that opinion,' 
said Ferdinand, with a smile. 


Mr. Boad Sharpe shrngged his shonlders. * There -will 
always be yotaries enough,' said Mr. Bond Sharpe, * what- 
erer may be my opinion.' 

'This is a magnificent establishment of yonrs,' sanl 

* Yes ; it is a very magnificent establishment. I have 
spared no expense to produce the most perfect thing of the 
kind in Europe ; and it is the most perfect thing of the 
kind. I am confident that no noble in any country has an 
establishment better appointed. I despatched an agent to 
the Ck)ntinent to procure this furniture: his commission 
had no Hmit, and he was absent two years. My cook was 
with Charles X. ; the cellar is the most choice and con- 
siderable that was ever collected. I lake a pride in the 
thing, but I lose money by it.' 


* I haye made a fortune ; there is no doubt of that ; but 
I did not make it here.' 

' It is a great thing to make a fortune,' said Ferdinand. 

* Very great,' said Mr. Bond Sharpe. * There is only one 
thing greater, and that is, to keep it when made.' 

Ferdinand smiled. 

* Many men make fortunes ; few can ke€|> them,' said 
Mr. Bond Sharpe. ' Money is power, and rare are the heads 
that can withstand the possession of great power.' 

* At any rate, it is to be hoped that you have discovered 
this more important secret,' said Ferdinand ; * though I 
confess, to judge from my own experience, I should fear 
that you are too generous.' 

* I had forgotten that to which you allude,' said his com- 
panion, quietly. * But 'with regard to myself, whatever 
may be my end, I have not yet reached my acm6.' 

* You have at least my good wishes,' said Ferdinand. 

* I may some day claim them,* said Mr. Bond Sharpe. 
My position,' he continued, * is difficult. I have risen by 


pursuits wHicli the world does not consider reputable, yet 
if I had not had recourse to them, I should be less than 
nothing. My mind, I think, is equal to my fortune ; I am 
fliill young, and I would now ayail myself of my power and 
establish myself in the laud, a recognised member of society. 
But this cannot be. Society shriulra finom an obscure 
fonndliug, a prize-fighter, a leg, a hell-keeper, and an 
usurer. Debarred therefore finom a fidr theatre for my 
energy and ci^ital, I am forced to occupy, perhaps exhaust, 
myself in multiplied speculations. Hitherto they have 
flourished, and perhaps my theatre, or my newspaper, may 
be as profitable as my stud. But I would gladfy emanci- 
pate myself. These elforts seem to me, as it were, un- 
necessaiy and unnaturaL The g^reat object has been gamed. 
It is a tempting of &te. I have sometimes thought mysdf 
the Napoleon of the sporting world ; I may yet find my Si 

* Forwamed, forearmed, Mr. Sharpe.' 

^ I moTe in a magio cirde : it is difficult to extricate 
myself firom it. Now, for instuice, there is not a man in 
the room who is not my slaye. You see how they treat me. 
They place me upon an equality with them. They know 
my weakness ; they fool me to the top of my bent. And 
yet there is not a man in that room who, if I were to break 
to-moROw, would walk down St. James'-streei to serre me. 
Yes ! there is one ; there is the Count. He has a great and 
generous souL I beHere Count Mirabel sympathises with 
my situation. I beHeTe he does not think, because a man 
has risen firom an origin the most ignoble and obscure to a 
powerful position, by great coniage and dexterity, and let 
Bfee add al«s by scone profoond thought, by struggling too, 
be it remembered^ with a class of society as little scrupulous, 
ttioigh not so skiHul as himsplf, that he is necessarily an 
falbMimi I Im HI ill What ii^ at dghteen years of age, with- 
Md a firiend in the worid, tnisdng to the powerful firame 


and intrepid spirit with whicli Nature had endowed me, I 
flnng myself into the ring ? Who should be a gladiator if 
I were not ? Is that a crime ? What ii^ at a later period, 
with a brain for calculation which none can rival, I in- 
yariablj succeeded in that in which the greatest men in the 
country fail ! Am I to be branded because I have made 
half a million by a good book ? What if I have kept a 
gambling-house ? From the back parlour of an oyster-shop 
my hazard table has been remoyed to this palace. Had the 
play been foul, this metamorphosis would never have oc- 
coired. It is true I am an usurer. My dear sir, if all the 
usurers in this great metropolis could only pass in pro- 
cession before you at this moment, how you would start ! 
You might find some Eight Honourables among them; 
many a great functionary, many a grave magistrate ; others 
of fEonilies, the very models of respectable characters, 
patrons and presidents of charitable institutions, and sub- 
scribers for the suppression of those very gaming-houses, 
whose victims, in nine cases out of ten, are their principal 
customers. I speak not in bitterness. On the whole, I 
must not complain of the world, but I have seen a great 
deal of mankind, and more than most, of what is considered 
its worst portion. The world, Captain Armine, believe me, 
is neither so bad nor so good as some are apt to suppose. 
And after all,' said Mr. Bond Sharpe, shrugging up his 
shoulders, * perhaps we ought to say with our friend the 
Count, "Vive la bagatelle ! " Will you take some supper ? ' 




The discovery tliat Henrietta Temple was the secret object 
of Ferdinand's unhappy passion, was a secret which Miss 
Grandison prized like a true woman. Not only had she 
made this discovery, but from her previous knowledge and 
her observation during her late interview with Miss Temple, 
Katherine was persuaded that Henrietta must still love her 
cousin as before. Miss Grandison was attached to Hen- 
rietta; she was interested in her cousin's welfare, and 
devoted to the Armine family. All her thoughts and all 
her energies were engaged in counteracting, if possible, the 
consequences of those unhappy misconceptions which had 
placed them all in this painful position. 

It was on the next day that she had promised to accom- 
pany the duchess and Henrietta on a water excursion. 
Lord Montfort was to be their cavalier. In the morning 
she found herself alone with his lordship in St. James'- 

* What a charming day ! ' said Miss Grandison. * I an- 
ticipate so much pleasure ! Who is our party ? ' 

* Ourselves alone,' said Lord Montfort. * Lady Armine 
cannot come, and Captain Armine is engaged. I fear you 
will find it very dull, Miss Grandison.* 

* Oh ! not at all. By the bye, do you know I was sur- 
prised yesterday at finding that Ferdinand and Henrietta 
were such old acquaintances.' 

* Were you ? ' said Lord Montfort, in a peculiar tone. 


* It is odd that Ferdinand never will go with ns anywhere. 
* tliint it is very bad taste/ 

* 1 think so too,' said Lord Montfort 

* I should have thought that Henrietta was the very 
P^i^on he would have admired ; that he would have been 
S.^te glad to be with us. I can easily understand his being 
^©aried to death with a cousin,' said Miss Grandison ; * but 
Henrietta, — ^it is so strange that he should not avail himself 
^^ the delight of being with her.' 

' Do you really think that such a cousin as Miss Grandi- 
^n can drive him away ? ' 

*Why, to tell you the truth, dear Lord Montfort, Fer- 
dinand is placed in a very awkward position with me. You 
are our friend, and so I speak to you 19 confidence. Sir 
fiatclifie and Lady Armine both expect that Ferdinand 
and myself are going to be married. Now, neither of us 
have the sb'ghtest intention of anything of the sort.' 

* Very strange, indeed,' said Lord Montfort. * The world 
will be much astonished, more so than myself, for I confess 
to a latent suspicion on the subject.' 

* Yes, I was aware of that,' said Miss Grandison, * or I 
should not have spoken with so much frankness. For my 
own parfc, I think we are very wise to insist upon having 
our own way, for an ill-assorted marriage must be a most 
melancholy business.' Miss Grandison spoke with an air 
almost of levity, which was rather unusual with her. 

' An ill-assorted marriage,' said Lord Montfort. ' And 
what do you call an ill-assorted marriage, Miss Grandison P ' 

*Why, many circumstances might constitute such an 
union,' said Katherine ; * but I think if one of the parties 
were in love with another person, that would be quite 
sufficient to ensure a tolerable portion of wretchedness.' 

* I think so too,' said Lord Montfort ; * an union, under 
such circumstances, would be ill-assorted. But Miss Gran- 
dison is not in that situation? ' he added with a faint smile. 

c c 


* That is scarcely a fair qnestioii,' said Katherine, mth 
gaiety, * but there is no doubt Ferdinand Armine is/ 

* Indeed!' 

* Yes ; he is in love, desperately in love ; that I have 
long discovered. I wonder with whom it can be ! ' 

* I wonder ! ' said Lord Montfort. 

* Do you ? ' said Miss Grandison. ' Well, I have some- 
times thought that you might have a latent suspicion of 
that subject, too. I thought you were his confidant.' 

* I! ' said Lord Montfort ; *I, of all men in the world?' 

* And why not you of all men in the world ? ' said Miss 

* Our intimacy is so slight,* said Lord Montfort. 

* Hum ! * said Miss Grandison. * And now I think of it, 
it does appear to me very strange how we have aU become 
suddenly such intimate Mends. The Armines and your 
family not previously acquainted : Miss Temple, too, un- 
known to my aunt and uncle. And yet we never live 
now out of each other's sight. I am sure I am gratefal 
for it ; I am sure it is very agreeable, but still it does 
appear to me to be very odd. I wonder what the reaeon 
can be?* 

* It is that you are so charming, Miss Grandison,' said 
Lord Montfort. 

'A compliment from you ! ' 

* Indeed, no compliment, dearest Miss Grandison,' said 
Lord Montfort, drawing near her. * Favoured as Miss 
Temple is in so many respects, in none, in my opinion, 
is she more fortunate than in the possession of so admirable 
a friend.' 

* Not even in the possession of so admirable a lover, my 

*A11 must love Miss Temple who are acquainted with 
her,' said Lord Montfort, seriously. 

' Indeed, I think so,' said Katherine, in a more subdued 


. * I love her ; her career fills me with a strange and 
lar interest. May she be happy, for happiness she 
d deserves ! ' 

have no fonder wish than to secure that hdl^piness, 
Grandison,' said Lord Montfort ; * by any means,' he 

lie is so interesting!' said Katherine. *When yon 
□lew her she was very ill ? ' 

le seems quite recovered.' 
hope so.' 

J. Temple says her spirits are not what they used to 
I wonder what was the matter with her ? ' 
:d Montfort was silent. 

cannot bear to see a fine spirit broken,' continued 
Grandison. * There was Ferdinand. Oh ! if you had 
mown my cousin before he was nnhappy. Oh ! that 
h spirit ! He was the most brilliant being that ever 
And then I was with him during all his illness. It 
o terrible. I almost wish we could have loved each 
. It is very strange, he must have been iU at Armine, 
3 very time Henrietta was ill in Italy. And I was with 
n England, while you were solacing her. And now 
•e aU Mends. There seems a sort of strange destiny 
r lots, does there not ? ' 

happy lot that can in any way be connected with 
Grandison,' said Lord Montfort. 

this moment her grace and Henrietta entered; the 
ige was ready; and in a few minutes they were driving 
hitehall Stairs, where a beautifal boat awaited them, 
the meantime, Ferdinand Armine was revolving the 
ge occurrences of yesterday. Altogether it was an 
ing and satisfactory day. In the first place, he had 
3ated himself &om his most pressing difi&cxilties ; in 
ext, he had been greatly amused ; and thirdly, he had 

c c 2 


made a very interesting acquaintance, for sncli he esteemed 
Count Mirabel. Jnst at the moment when, lounging over 
a yeiy late breakfast, he was thinking of Bond Sharps and 
his great career, and then turning in his mind whether it 
were possible to foUow the gay counsels of his fiiends of 
yesterday, and never plague himself about a woman agaiii, 
the Count Mirabel was announced. 

* Mon cher Armine,' said the Count, * you see I kept my 
promise, and would find you at home.' 

The Count stood before him, the best-dressed man in 
London, fresh and gay as a bird, with not a care on his 
sparkling visage, and his eye bright with bonhomie. And 
yet Count Mirabel had been the very last to desert the 
recent mysteries of Mr. Bond Sharpe ; and, as usual, the 
dappled light of dawn had guided him to his luxurious bed, 
that bed that always a£forded him serene slumbers, what- 
ever might be the adventures of the day, or the result of 
the night's campaign. How the Count Mirabel did laugh 
at those poor devils, who wake only to moralise over their 
own folly with broken spirits and aching heads ! Care he 
knew nothing about ; Time he defied ; Indisposition he 
could not comprehend. He had never been ill in his life, 
even for five minutes. 

Ferdinand was really very glad to see him ; there was 
something in Count Mirabers very presence which put 
everybody in good spirits. His lightheartedness was caught 
by all. Melancholy was a farce in the presence of his smile ; 
and there was no possible combination of scrapes that could 
withstand his kind and brilliant raillery. At the present 
moment, Ferdinand was in a sufficiently good humour with 
his destiny, and he kept up the ball with effect ; so that 
nearly an hour passed in amusing conversation. 

*Tou were a stranger among us yesterday,* said Cotuit 
Mirabel ; * I think you were rather diverted. I saw you 
did justice to that excellent Bond Sharpe. That shows 


that you have a mind above prejudice. Do you know he 
was by far the best man at table except ourselves ? ' 
Ferdinand smiled. 

* It is true, he has a heart and a brain. Old Castlefyshe 
has neither. As for the rest of our Mends, some have 
hearts without brains, and the rest brains without hearts. 
Which do you prefer ? ' 

' 'Tis a fine question,' said Ferdinand ; ' and yet I confess 
I should like to be callous.' 

* Ah ! but you cannot be,' said the Count, * you have a 
soul of great sensibility ; I see that in a moment.' 

* You see very far, and very quickly, Count Mirabel,' said 
Ferdinand, with a little reserve. 

* Yes ; in a minute,' said the Count, * in a minute I read 
a person's character. I know you are very much in love, 
because you changed countenance yesterday when we were 
talking of women.' 

Ferdinand changed countenance again. * You are a very 
extraordinary man, Count,' he at length observed. 

' Of course ; but, mon cher Armine, what a fine day this 
is ! What are you going to do with yourself? ' 

' Nothing ; I never do anything,' said Ferdinand, in an 
almost mournful tone. 

* A melancholy man ! Quelle betise ! I will cure you. 
I will be your Mend, and put you all right. Now, we will 
just drive down to Richmond ; we will have a light dinner, 
a flounder, a cutlet, and a bottle of champagne, and then 
we will go to the French play. I will introduce you to 
Jenny Vertpr6. She is fall of wit ; perhaps she will ask us 
to supper. Aliens, mon ami, mon cher Armine ; aliens, 
mon brave ! ' 

Ceremony was a £arce with Alcibiades de Mirabel. 
Ferdinand had nothing to do; he was attracted to his 
oompanion. The effervescence produced by yesterday's 
fortunate adventure had not quite subsided ; he was deter- 


mined to forget his sorrows, and, if only for a day, join 
in the lively chorus of Vive la bagatelle ! So, in a few 
moments, he was safely ensconced in the most perfect 
cabriolet in London, whirled along by a horse that stepped 
out with a proud consciousness of its master. 

The Count Mirabel enjoyed the drive to Richmond as if 
he had never been to Richmond in his life. The warm 6im, 
the western breeze, every object he passed and that passed 
him called for his praise or observation. He inoculated 
Ferdinand with his gaiety, as Ferdinand listened to his 
light, lively tales, and his flying remarks, so full of merri- 
ment and poignant truth and daring. fancy. When thej 
had arrived at the Star and (barter, and ordered their 
dinner, they strolled into the Park, along the Terrace 
walk ; and they had not proceeded, fifty paces when they 
came up with the duchess and her party, who were resting 
on a bench and looking over the valley. 

Ferdinand would gladly have bowed and passed on ; bnt 
that was impossible. He was obliged to stop and speak to 
them, and it was difi&cult to disembarrass himself of friends 
who greeted him so kindly. Ferdinand presented his com- 
panion. The ladies were charmed to know so celebrated 
a gentleman, of whom they had heard so much. Count 
Mirabel, who had the finest tact in the world, but whose 
secret spell, after all, was perhaps only that he was always 
natural, adapted himself in a moment to the characters, 
the scene, and the occasion. He was quite delighted at 
these unexpected sources of amusement, that had so uboz- 
pectedly revealed themselves ; and in a few minutes they 
had all agreed to walk together, and in due time i^e 
duchess was begging Ferdinand and his Mend to dine with 
them. Before Ferdinand could frame an excuse. Count 
Mirabel had accepted the proposition. After passing the 
morning together so agreeably, to go and dine in separate 
rooms, it would be a betise. This word betise settled 


everything with Count Mirabel; when once he declaoi'ed 
that anything was a betise, he would hear no more. 

It was a charming stroll. Never was Count Mirabel 
more playful, more engaging, more completely winning. 
Henrietta and Katherine alike smiled upon him, and the 
duchess was quite enchanted. Even Lord Montfort, who 
might rather have entertained a prejudice against the Count 
before he knew him, and none can after, and who was 
prepared for something rather brilliant, but pretending, 
presumptuous, fantastic, and affected, quite yielded to his 
amiable gaiety, and his racy and thoroughly genuine and 
simple manner. So they walked and talked and laughed, 
and all agreed that it was the most fortunately fine day and 
the most felicitous rencontre that had ever occurred, until 
the dinner hour was at hand. The Count was at her grace's 
side, and she was leaning on Miss Temple's arm. Lord 
Montfort and Miss Grandison had fallen back apace, as 
their pariy had increased. Ferdinand fluttered between 
Miss Temple and his cousin; but would have attached 
himself to the latter, had not Miss Temple occasionally 
addressed him. He was glad, however, when they returned 
to dinner. 

* "We have only availed ourselves of your grace's permis- 
sion to join our dinners,' said Count Mirabel, offering the 
duchess his arm. He placed himself at the head of the 
table ; Lord Montfort took the other end. To the surprise 
of Ferdinand, Miss Grrandison, with a heedlessness that was 
quite remarkable, seated herself next to the duchess, so that 
Ferdinand was obliged to sit by Henrietta Temple, who was 
thus separated from Lord Montfort. 

The dinner was as gay as the stroll, Ferdinand was the 
only person who was silent. 

*How amusing he is!' said Miss Temple, turning to 
Ferdinand, and speaking in an under tone. 

* Yes ; I envy him his gaiety.' 


* Be gay.' 

* I thank yon ; I dare say I shall in time. I have not ye 
qnite embraced all Connt Mirabel's philosophy. He say 
that the man who plagnes himself for five minntes about 
woman is an idiot. When I think the same, which I ho 
I may soon, I dare say I shall be as gay.' 

Miss Temple addressed herself no more to Ferdinand. 

They retnmed by water. To Ferdinand's great annoy 
ance, the Connt did not hesitate for a moment to avail him 
self of the duchess's proposal that he and his companio; 
should form part of the crew. He gave immediate orders 
that his cabriolet should meet him at Whitehall Stairs, anc 
Ferdinand found there was no chance of escape. 

It was a delicious summer evening. The setting su 
bathed the bowers of Fulham with refolgent light, just 
they were off delicate Bosebank ; but the air long continue 
warm, and always soft, and the last few nules of the^x- 
pleasant voyage were tinted by the young and glitterin.^ 

* I wish we had brought a guitar,' said Miss Grandison. ; 
' Count Mirabel, I am sure, would sing to us ? ' 

* And you, you will sing to us without a guitar, will 
you not ? ' said the Count, smiling. 

* Henrietta, will you sing ? ' said Miss Grandison. 

* With you.' 

* Of course ; now you must,' said the Count : so they did. 
This gliding home to the metropolis on a summer eve, so 

soft and still, with beautiful faces, as should always be tbe 
case, and with sweet sounds, as was the present ; there is 
something very ravishing in the combination. The heart 
opens ; it is a dangerous moment. As Ferdinand listened 
once more to the voice of Henrietta, even though it ueas 
blended with the sweet tones of Miss Grandison, the pas- 
sionate past vividly recurred to him. Fortunately he die' 
not sit near her ; he had taken care to be the last in tb 


boat. He turned away his face, but its stem expression 
did not escape the observation of the Count Mirabel. 

*And now, Count Mirabel, you must really favour us,' 
said the duchess. 

' Without a guitar ? ' said the Count, and he began thrum- 
ming on his arm for an accompaniment. * Well, when I was 
with the Due d'Angouleme in Spain, we sometimes indulged 
in a serenade at Seville. I will try to remember one.' 


Come £ortb, come forth, the star we love 
Is high o'er Guadalquivir's grove, 
And tints each tree with golden light ; 
Ah ! Bosalie, one smile from thee were far more bright. 

Come forth, come forth, the flowers that fear 
To blossom in the sun's career 
The moonlight with their odours greet; 
Ah ! Eosalie, one eigh from thee were far more sweet! 

Come forth, come forth, one hour of night. 
When flowers are fresh and stars are bright, 
Were worth an age of gaudy day ; 
Then, Eosalie, fly, fly to me, nor longer stay ! 

' I hope the lady came,' said Miss Temple, ' after such a 
pretty song.* 

* Of course,' said the Count, * they always come.' 

* Ferdinand, will you sing ?' said Miss Grandison. 
' I cannot, Katherino.' 

* Henrietta, ask Ferdinand to sing,' said Miss Grandison ; 
* he makes it a rule never to do anything I ask him, but I 
am sure you have more influence.' 

Lord Montfort came to the rescue of Miss Temple. 
' Miss Temple has spoken so often to us of your singings 
Captain Armine,' said his lordship ; and yet Lord Montfort^ 
in this allegation, a little departed from the habitual ex- 
actitude of his statements. 


* How very strange ! ' thought Ferdinand ; * her callon^, 
ness or her candour baffles me. * I will try to sing/ 1^^ 
continued alond, * but it is a year really since I ever did.' 

In a voice of singular power and melody, and with ^^-j 
expression which increased as he proceeded, until the sin^^j 
seemed scarcely able to control his emotions, Captain Ao*. 
mine thus proceeded : — 


My heart is like a silent lute 

Some faithless hand has thrown aside ; 
Those chords are dumb, those tones are mute. 

That once sent forth a voice of pride ! 
Yet even o'er the lute neglected 

The wind of heaven will sometimes fly, 
And even thus the heart dejected. 

Will sometimes answer to a sigh! 

And yet to feel another^s power 

May grasp the prize for which I pine, 
And others now may pluck the flower 

I cherished for this heart of mine ! 
No more, no more ! The hand forsaking, 

The lute must fall, and shivered lie 
In silence : and my heart thus breaking, 

Eesponds not even to a sigh. 

Miss Temple seemed busied with her shawl ; perhaps she 
felt the cold. Count Mirabel, next whom she sat, was about 
to assist her. Her face was turned to the water ; it was 
streaming with tears. Without appearing to notice her, 
Count Mirabel leant forward, and engaged everybody's 
attention ; so that she was unobserved and had time to 
recover. And yet she was aware that the Count Mirabel 
had remarked her emotion, and was grateful for his quick 
and delicate consideration. It was fortunate that West- 
minster-bridge was now in sight, for after this song of 


^ptain Armine, everyone became dull or pensive; even 
"*^^^t Mirabel was silent. 

The ladies and Lord Montfort entered their britscba. 
'^^y bid a cordial adieu to Count Mirabel, and begged him 
^ call upon tbem in St. James'-sqnare, and the Count and 
^i^dinand were alone. 

Cher Armine,' said the Count, as he was driving up 
'•^aring-cross, * Catch told me you were going to marry 
^"tir cousin. Which of those two young ladies is your 
'^tisiii ? ' 

* The fair girl ; Miss Grandison.' 

* So I understood. She is very pretty, but you are not 
^ing to marry her, are you ? * 

* No ; I am not.' 

*And who is Miss Temple ? ' 

* She is going to be married to Lord Montfort.' 
*Diable! But what a fortunate man! What do you 

^^liink of Miss Temple ? ' 

* 1 think of her as all, I suppose, must.' 

' She is beautiful : she is the most beautiful woman I 
iver saw. She marries for money, I suppose ? ' 

' She is the richest heiress in England ; she is much 
richer than my cousin.' 

* C'est dr61e. But she does not want to marry Lord 


* Because, my dear fellow, she is in love with you.' 

' By Jove, Mirabel, what a fellow you are ! What do 
f on mean ? ' 

* Mon cher Armine, I like you more than anybody. I 
wish to be, I am, your friend. Here is some cursed con- 
jretemps. There is a mystery, and both of you are victims 
)f it. Tell me everything. I will put you right.' 

*Ah! my dear Mirabel, it is past even your skill. X 
ibought I could never speak on these things to human 


being, but I am attracted to you by the same sympatliy 
which you flatter me by expressing for myself. I want a 
confidant, I need a friend, I am most wretched.' 

* Eh ! bien ! we will not go to the French play. As for 
Jenny Vertpr^, we can sup with her any night. Come to 
my house, and we will talk over everything. But tmst 
me, if you wish to marry Henrietta Temple, you are an 
idiot if you do not have her.' 

So saying, the Count touched his bright horse, and in a 
few minutes the cabriolet stopped before a small but ad- 
mirably appointed house in Berkeley-square. 

* Now, mon cher,* said the Count, * coffee and con. 




Is there a more gay and graceful spectacle in the world 
than Hyde Park, at the end of a long sunny morning in 
the merry month of May or June ? Where can we see 
such beautiful women, such gallant cavaKers, such fine 
horses, and such brilliant equipages ? The scene, too, is 
worthy of such agreeable accessories : the groves, the 
gleaming waters, and the triumphal arches. In the dis- 
tance, the misty heights of Surrey, and the bowery glades 
of Kensington. 

It was the day after the memorable voyage from Bach* 
mond. Eminent among the glittering throng. Count Mirabel 
cantered along on his Arabian, scattering gay recognitions 
and bright words. He reined in his steed beneath a tree, 
under whose shade were assembled a knot of listless cava- 
liers. The Count received their congratulations, for this 
morning he had won his pigeon match. 

* Only think of that old fool, Castlefyshe, betting on Pop- 


said the Connt. * I want to see Mm, old idiot ! 

)ws where Charley is ? ' 

Mirabel,' said Lord Catchimwhocan. *He has 

Richmond with Blandford and the two little 

good Blandford ! Whenever he is in love he 
Lves a dinner. It is a droll way to succeed.' 
DOS, will yon dine with me to-day, Mirabel ? ' said 

ssible, my dear fellow ; I dine with Fitzwarrene.' 
, Mirabel,' drawled out a yonng man, * I saw you 
T driving a man down to Richmond yonrself. Who 
riend ? ' 

le yon know, or will know. 'Tis the best fellow 
: lived ; bnt he is under my guidance, and I shall 
^articular to whom he is introduced.' 
! I wonder who ho can be ! ' said the young man. 
\ Mirabel, you will be done on Goshawk, if you 
:e care, I can tell you that.' 

k you, good Coventry ; if you like to bet the odds, 
£0 them.' 
ay dear fellow, I do not want to bet, but at the 

le ' 

bave an opinion that you will not back. That is a 
or certainly it is of no use. I would advise you to 

I must say, Mirabel,' said Lord Catchimwhocan, 
the same about Goshawk.' 

10, Catch, you do not think so; you think you 
o and take all the odds you can get upon Goshawk. 
)w, to-morrow you will tell me you have a very 
►ok. Eh ! mon cher Catch ? ' 
io you really think Goshawk will win ? ' asked 
«himwhocan, earnestly. 


* Well, damned if I don't go and take the odds/ said bi^ 

* Mirabel,' said a young noble, moving his horse close 'to 
the Count, and speaking in a low Toice, ' shall you be ^^ 
home to-morrow morning ? ' 

' Certainly. But what do you want ? ' 

' I am in a devil of a scrape ; I do not know what to do. 
I want you to advise me.' 

The Count moved aside with this cavalier. * And what 
is it ? ' said he. ' Have you been losing ? ' 

' No, no,' said the young man, shaking his head. ' Mnch 
worse. It is the most infernal business ; I do not know 
what I shall do. I think I shall cut my throat.' 

' BStise ! It cannot be very bad, if it be not money.' 

' Oh, my dear Mirabel, you do not know what trouble I 
am in.' 

'Mon cher Henri,- soyez tranquille,' said the County in a 
kind voice. ' I am your friend. Best assured, I wiQ arrange 
it. Think no more of it until to-morrow at one o'clock, 
and then call on me. If you like, I am at your service at 
present.' • 

* No, no, not here : there are letters.' 

* Ha, ha ! Well, to-morrow, at one. In the meantime, 
do not write any nonsense.' 

At this moment, the duchess, with a party of equestrians, 
passed and bowed to the Count Mirabel. 

* I say, Mirabel,' exclaimed a young man, * who is that 
girl? I want to know. I have seen her several times 
lately. By Jove, she is a fine creature ! ' 

* Do not you know Miss Temple ? ' said the Count. 
* Fancy a man not knowing Miss Temple ! She is the only 
woman in London to be looked at.' 

Now there was a great flutter in the band, and nothing 
but the name of Miss Temple was heard. All vowed 
they knew her very well, at least by sight, and never 


Lght of anybody else. Some asked the Count to pre- 

' them, others meditated plans by which that great 

lit might be obtained ; but, in the midst of all this 

-ation, Connt Mirabel rode away, and was soon by the 

Y lady's side. 

What a charming voyage yesterday,' said the Connt to 

Js Temple. * You were amused ? ' 


And to think you should all know my Mend Armine so 

I ! I was astonished, for he will never go anywhere, or 

ak to anyone.' 

You know him intimately ? ' said Miss Temple. 

He is my brother ! There is not a human being in the 

Id I love so much ! K you only knew him as I know 

. Ah! chere Miss Temple, there is not a man in 

don to be compared with him, so clever and so good ! 

at a heart ! so tender ! and what talent ! There is no 

so spirituel.' 

STou have known him long, Count ? ' 

Always ; but of late I find a great change in him. 1 

not discover what is the matter with him. He has 

wn melancholy. I think he will not Hve.' 

Indeed ! ' 

No, I am never wrong. That cher Armine will not live.' 

You are his friend, surely ' 

Ah ! yes ; but, I do not know what it is. Even me he 
38 not for. I contrive sometimes to get him about a 
[e ; ^ yesterday, for instance ; but to-day, you see, he 
L not move. There he is, sitting alone, in a dull hotel, 
b his eyes fixed on the ground, dark as night. Never 
I a mian so changed. I suppose something has happened 
lim abroad. When you first knew him, I daresay now, 
vras the gayest of the gay ? ' 

He was indeed very difierent,' said Miss Temple, turning 
ky her &ce. 


* You have known tliat dear Armine a long time ? * 
' It seems a long time/ said Miss Temple. 

* If he dies, and die he must, I do not think I shall ever 
be in very good spirits again,' said the Count. ' It is the 
only thing that would quite upset me. Now do not you 
think. Miss Temple, that our cher Armine is the most in- 
teresting person you ever met ? * 

* I believe Captain Armine is admired by all those who 
know him.* 

* He is so good, so tender, and so clever. Lord Montfort, 
he knows him very well ? * 

* They were companions in boyhood, I believe ; but they 
have resumed their acquaintance only recently.' 

*We must interest Lord Montfort in his Lord 
Montfort must assist in our endeavours to bring him out 
a little.' 

* Lord Montfort needs no prompting, Count. We are all 
alike interested in Captain Armine's welfare.' 

* I wish you would try to find out what is on his mind,* 
said Count Mirabel. ' After all, men cannot do much. It 
requires a more delicate sympathy than we can offer. And 
yet I would do anything for the cher Armine, because I 
really love him the same as if he were my brother.' 

' He is fortunate in such a friend.' 

'Ah ! he does not think so any longer,' said the Count; 

* he avoids me, he will not tell me anything. Chere Miss 
Temple, this business haunts me; it will end badly. I know 
that dear Armine so well ; no one knows him like me ; his 
feelings are too strong : no one has such strong feelings. 
Now, of all my friends, he is the only man I know who is 
capable of committing suicide.' 

' God forbid ! ' said Henrietta Temple, with emphasis. 

* I rise every morning with apprehension,* said the Count. 

* When I call upon him, every day, I tremble as I approach 
his hotel.* 


* Are yon indeed serious ? ' 

' Most serious. I knew a man once in the same state. 
It was the Due de Crillon. He was my brother Mend, like 
this dear Armine. We were at college together ; we were 
in the. same regiment. He was exactly like this dear 
Armine, young, beautiful, and clever, but with a heart all 
tenderness, terrible passions. He loved Mademoiselle de 
Guise, my cousin, the most beautiful girl in France. Par- 
don me, but I told Armine yesterday that you reminded me 
of her. They were going to be married ; but there was a 
contretemps. He sent for me ; I was in Spain ; she married 
theViscoTintdeMawagnac. Until that dreadful mommgf 
he remained exactly in the same state as our dear Armine. 
Never was a melancholy so profound. After the ceremony 
he shot himself.' 

* No, no ! ' exclaimed Miss Temple in great agitation. 

* Perfectly true. It is the terrible recollection of that 
dreadful adventure that overcomes me when I see our dear 
friend here, because I feel it must be love. I was in hopes 
it was his cousin. But it is not so ; it must be something 
that has happened abroad. Love alone can account for it. 
It is not his debts that would so overpower him. What 
are his debts ? I would pay them myself. It is a heart- 
rending business. I am going to him. How I tremble ! ' 

* How good you are ! ' exclaimed Miss Temple, with 
streaming eyes. ' I ever shall be grateful ; I mean, we all 
must. Oh ! do go to him, go to him directly ; tell him to 
be happy.' 

' It is the song I ever sing,' said the Count. * I wish 
some of you would come and see him, or send him a mes- 
sage. It is wise to show him that there are some who take 
interest in his existence. Now, give me that flower, for 
instance, and let me give it to him from you.' 

* He will not care for it,' said Miss Temple. 

* Try. It is a fancy I have. Let me bear it.* 

D D 


Miss Temple gave tlie flower to the Connt, who rode off 
with his prize. 

It was about eight o'clock : Ferdinand was sitting alone 
in his room, having just parted with Glastonbury, who was 
going to dine in Brook-street. The sun had set, and yet 
it was scarcely dark enough for artificial light, particularly 
for a person without a pursuit. It was just that dreary 
dismal moment, when even the most gay grow pensive, if 
they be alone. And Ferdinand was particularly dnll ; a 
reaction had followed the excitement of the last eight-and- 
forty hours, and he was at this moment feeling singularly 
disconsolate, and upbraiding himself for being so weak as 
to permit himself to be influenced by Mirabel's fantastic 
promises and projects, when his door flew open, and the 
Count, ^ill dressed, and graceful as a Versailles Apollo, 
stood before him. 

* Cher ami ! I cannot stop one minute. I dine with 
Fitzwarrene, and I am late. I have done your business 
capitally. Here is a pretty flower ! Who do you think 
gave it me ? She did, pardy. On condition, however, that 
I should bear it to you, with a message ; and what a mes- 
sage ! that you should be happy.' 

* Nonsense, my dear Count.' 

' It is true ; but I romanced at a flne rate for it. It is 
the only way with women. She thinks we have known 
each other since the Deluge. Do not betray me. But^ my 
dear fellow, I cannot stop now, Only, mind, all is changed. 
Instead of being gay, and seeking her society, and amusing 
her, and thus attempting to regain your influence, as we 
talked of last night ; mind, suicide is the system. To- 
morrow I will tell you all. She has a firm mind and a 
high spirit^ which she thinks is principle. If we go upon 
the tack of last night, she will marry Montfort, and fiill 
in love with you afterwards. That will never do. So we 
must work upon her fears, her generosity, pity, remorse, and 


Uall upon me to-morrow morning, at half-past two ; 
)re, because I have an excellent boy coming to me 
who is in a scrape. At half-past two, cher, cher 
we will talk more. In the meantime, enjoy your 
and rest assured, that it is your own fault if you 
ling the good Montfort in a very fine ditch.' 



int Mirabel proceeded with his projects with all the 
address, and audacity of one habituated to success. 
3 means or other he contrived to see Miss Temple 
laily. He paid assiduous court to the duchess, on 
e had made a favourable impression from the first ; 
Etmes' -square he met Mr. Temple, who was partial 
society of a distinguished foreigner. He was de- 
with Count Mirabel. As for Miss Grandison, the 
tbsolutely made her his confidant, though he con- 
bis bold step from Ferdinand. He established his 
J in the three families, and even mystified Sir 
) and Lady Armine so completely that they ima- 
e must be some acquaintance that Ferdinand had 
3road; and they received him accordingly as one 
son's oldest and most cherished friends. But the 
rasing circumstance of all was that the Count, who 
business never lost sight of what might divert or 
him, became great friends with Mr. Glastonbury. 
yOrabel comprehended and appreciated that good 

ount Mirabel's efforts were directed to restore the 
B of Ferdinand Armine over Henrietta Temple ; and 
s view he omitted no opportuniiy of impressing the 



idea of Ms absent friend on that ladj's snsceptible braixi. 
TTiR yirtnes, Ids talents, his accomplishments, his sacrifices; 
bnt, above all, his mysterious sufferings, and the fatal end 
which the Count -was convinced awaited him, were placed 
before her in a light so vivid that they engrossed her 
thought and imagination. She could not resist the fasci- 
nation of talking about Ferdinand Armine to Count Mirabel. 
He was the constant subject of their discourse. All her 
feelings now clustered round his image. She had quite 
abandoned her old plan of marrying him to his cousin. 
That was desperate. Did she regret it ? She scarcely dared 
urge to herself this secret question ; and yet it seemed that 
her heart, too, would break were Ferdinand another's. 
But, then, what was to become of him ? Was he to be 
left desolate ? Was he indeed to die ? Ajid Digby, the 
amiable, generous Digby ; ah ! why did she ever meet him? 
Unfortunate, unhappy woman ! And yet she was resolved 
to bo fmn ; she could not falter ; she would be the victiin 
of her duty even if she died at the altar. Almost sbe 
wished that she had ceased to live, and then the recollec- 
tion of Armine came back to her so vividly ! And those 
long days of passionate delight ! All his tenderness and 
all his truth ; for he had been true to her, always had be 
been true to her. She was not the person who ought to 
complain of his conduct. And yet she was the person wbo 
alone punished him. How different was the generous con- 
duct of his cousin ! She had pardoned all ; she sympa- 
thised with him, she sorrowed for him, she tried to soothe 
him. She laboured to unite him to her rival. What must 
lie think of herself ? How hard-hearted, how selfish must 
the contrast prove her ! Could he indeed believe now that 
she had ever loved him ? Oh, no ! he must despise her. 
He must believe that she was sacrificing her heart to the 
splendour, of rank. Oh ! could he believe this ! Her 
Ferdinand, her romantic Ferdinand, who had thrown for- 


^ne and power to tlie winds but to gain that very heart ! 
*^t a return had she made him ! And for all his fidelity 
*^e was punished ; lone, disconsolate, forlorn, overpowered 
"7 vnlgar cares, heart-broken, meditating even death—. 
The picture was too terrible, too harrowing. She hid her 
fece in the piUow of the sofa on which she was seated, and 
^ept bitterly. 

She felt an arm softly twined round her waist ; she looked 
up, it was her father. 

*My child,' he said, * you are agitated.' 

* Yes ; yes, I am agitated,* she said, in a low voice. 
' You are unwell.' 

* Worse than unwell.' 

. * Tell me what ails you, Henrietta.' 

* Grief for which there is no cure.' 

* Indeed ! I am greatly astonished.' 
His daughter only sighed. 

* Speak to me, Henrietta. Tell me what has happened.' 

* I cannot speak ; nothing has happened ; I have nothing 
to say.* 

* To see you thus makes me quite unhappy,' said Mr. 
Temple ; * if only for my sake, let me know the cause of 
this overwhelming emotion.' 

^ It is a cause that will not please you. Forget, sir, what 
yon have seen.' 

* A father cannot. I entreat you tell me. If you love 
me, Henrietta, speak.' 

* Sir, sir, I was thinking of the past.' 
*Is it so bitter?' 

* Ah ! that I should live,' said Miss Temple. 

* Henrietta, my own Henrietta, my child, I beseech you 
tell me all. Something has occurred ; something must 

liave occurred to revive such strong feelings. Hxis, has 

I know not what to say, but so much happens that sur- 
prises me ; I know, I have heard, that you have seen one 


who once infineneed your feelings, tliafc you have been 
thrown in unexpected contact with him ; he has not, he has 
not dared ' 

* Say nothing harshly of him,' said Miss Temple wildly; 
* I will not bear it, even from you/ 

* My daughter ! * 

' Ay ! your daughter, but still a woman. Do I murmur? 
Do I complain ? Have I urged you to compromise your 
honour? I am ready for the sacrifice. My conduct is 
yours, but my feelings are my own.' 

* Sacrifice, Henrietta ! What sacrifice ? I have heard 
only of your happiness ; I have thought only of your happi- 
ness. This is a strange return.' 

* Father, forget what you have seen ; forgive what I have 
said. But let this subject drop for ever.' 

*It cannot drop here. Captain Armine prefers his 
suit ? ' continued Mr. Temple, in a tone of stem enquiry. 

* What if he did ? He has a right to do so.' 

* As good a right as he had before. You are rich now, 
Henrietta, and he perhaps would be faithful.' 

* O Ferdinand ! ' exclaimed Miss Temple, lifting up her 
hands and eyes to heaven, 'and you must endure even 

* Henrietta,' said Mr. Temple in a voice of affected cahn^ 
ness, as he seated himself by her side, ' listen to me : I am 
not a harsh parent ; you cannot upbraid me with insensi- 
bility to your feelings. They have ever engrossed my 
thought and care ; and how to gratify, and when necessary 
how to soothe them, has long been the principal occupation 
of my life. If you have known misery, girl, you made that 
misery yourself. It was not I that involved you in secret 
engagements and clandestine correspondence ; it was not I 
that made you, you, my daughter, on whom I have lavished 
all the solicitude of long years, the dupe of the first calcn- 


lating libertine who dared to trifle with your affectioiis, and 
betray yonr heart/ 

* 'Tis false,' exclauned Miss Temple, interrupting hirn ; 
' lie is as true and pure as I am ; more, much more,' she 
suided, in a voice of anguish. 

* No doubt he has convinced you of it,' said Mr. Temple, 
mtL. a laughing sneer. ' Now, mark me,' he continued, re- 
3nming his calm tone, ' you interrupted me ; listen to me. 
YoTL are the betrothed bride of Lord Montfort ; Lord Mont- 
Fort, my Mend, the man I love most in the world ; the 
most generous, the most noble, the most virtuous, the most 
gifted of human beings. You gave him your hand freely, 
under circumstances which, even if he did not possess 
every quality that ought to secure the affection of a woman, 
should bind you to him with an unswerving faith. Falter 
one jot and I whistle you off for ever. You are no more 
daughter of mine. I am as firm as I am fond ; nor would 
I do this, but that I know well I am doing rightly. Yes ! 
take this Armine once more to your heart, and you receive 
my curse, the deepest, the sternest, the deadliest that ever 
descended on a daughter's head.' 

* My father, my dear, dear father, my beloved father ! ' 
exclaimed Miss Temple, throwing herself at his feet. * Oh ! 
do not say so ; oh ! recall those words, those wild, those 
t«Tible words. Indeed, indeed, my heart is breaking. 
Pity me, pity me ; for God's sake, pity me.' 

* I would do more than pity you ; I would save you.' 

' It is not as you think,' she continued, with streaming 
eyes ; ' indeed it is not. He has not preferred his suit, he 
has urged no claim. He has behaved in the most delicate, 
the most honourable, the most considerate manner. He 
has thought only of my situation. He met me by accident. 
My friends are his friends. They know not what has taken 
place between us. He has not breathed it to human being. 


He has absented himself from his home, that we might not 

* You must marry Lord Montfort at once.' 

* Oh ! my father, even as you like. But do not curse me ; 
dream not of such terrible things; recall those fear^ 
words ; love me, love me ; say I am your child. And Digbj, 
I am true to Digby. But, indeed, can I recall the past; 
can I alter it ? Its memory overcame me. Digby knows 
all ; Digby knows we met ; he did not curse me ; he was 
kind and gentle. Oh ! my father ! ' 

*My Henrietta,' said Mr. Temple, moved ; *my child!' 

* Oh ! my father, I will do all you wish ; but speak not 
again as you have done of Ferdinand. We have done him 
great injustice ; I have done him great injury. He is good 
and pure ; indeed, he is ; if you knew all, you would not 
doubt it. He was ever faithful ; indeed, indeed he was. 
Once you liked him. Speak kindly of him, father. He is 
the victim. If yon meet him, be gentle to him, sir : for, 
indeed, if you knew all, you would pity him.' 




If we pause now to take a calm and comprehensive re- 
view of the state and prospects of the three families, in 
whose feelings and fortunes we have attempted to interest 
the reader, it must be confessed that, however brilliant and 
satisfactory they might appear on the surface, the elements 
of discord, gloom, and unhappiness might be more pro- 
foundly discovered, and might even be held as rapidly 
stirring into movement. Miss Temple was the affianced 
bride of Lord Montfort, but her heart was Captain Ar- 


mine's : Captain Armine, in the estimation of his parents, 
was the pledged husband of Miss Grandison, while he and 
his cousin had, in fact, dissolved their engagement. Mr. 
Temple more than suspected his daughter's partiality for 
Ferdinand. Sir Ratcliffe, very much surprised at seeing 
so little of his son, and resolved that the marriage should 
be no further delayed, was about to precipitate confessions, 
of which he did not dream, and which were to shipwreck 
all the hopes of his life. The Count Mirabel and Miss 
Grandison were both engaged in an active conspiracy. 
Lord Montfort alone was calm, and, if he had a purpose 
to conceal, inscrutable. All things, however, foreboded a 

Sir Ratcliffe, astonished at the marked manner in which 
his son absented himself from Brook-street, resolved upon 
bringing him to an explanation. At first, he thought there 
might be some lovers' quarrel ; but the demeanour of 
Katherine, and the easy tone in which she ever spoke of 
her cousin, soon disabused him of this fond hope. He con- 
sulted his wife. Now, to tell the truth. Lady Armine, who 
was a shrewd woman, was not without her doubts and per- 
plexities, but she would not confess them to her husband. 
Many circumstances had been observed by her which filled 
her with disquietude, but she had staked all her hopes upon 
this cast, and she was of a sanguine temper. She was 
leading an agreeable life. Katherine appeared daily more 
attached to her, and Lady Armine was quite of opinion 
that it is always very injudicious to interfere. She en- 
deavoured to persuade Sir Eatcliffe that everything was 
quite right, and .she assured him that the season would 
terminate, as all seasons ought to terminate, by the 

And perhaps Sir Batclifie would have followed her ex- 
ample, only it so happened that as he was returning home 
one morning, he met his son in Grosvenor-square. 


* Why, Ferdinand, we never see you now,' said Sir Rat- 

* Oh ! you are all so gay,' said Ferdinand. * How is my 
mother ? ' 

* She is very well. Katherine and herself have gone to 
see the balloon, with Lord Montfort and Count Mirabel. 
Come in,' said Sir Batclifife, for he was now almost at his 

The father and son entered. Sir Batcliffe walked into a 
little library on the ground floor, which was his moniing 

* We dine at home to-day, Ferdinand,' said Sir Ratcliffe. 
* Perhaps you will come.' 

* Thank you, sir, I am engaged.' 

* It seems to me you are always engaged. For a person 
who does not like gaiety, it is very odd.' 

* Heigho ! ' said Ferdinand. * How do you like your new 
horse, sir ? ' 

•Ferdinand, I wish to speak a word to you,' said Sir 
Eatclifle. *I do not like ever to interfere unnecessarily 
with your conduct; but the anxiety of a parent will, I 
think, excuse the question I am about to ask. When do 
you propose being married ? ' 

* Oh, I do not know exactly.' 

* Tour grandfather has been dead now, you know, much 
more than a year. I cannot help thinking your conduct 
singular. There is nothing wrong between you and Kathe- 
rine, is there ? ' 

* Wrong, sir ? ' 

* Yes, wrong ? I mean, is there any misunderstanding ? 
Have you quarrelled ? ' 

* No, sir, we have not quarrelled ; we perfectly under- 
stand each other.' 

* I am glad to hear it, for I must say I think your con- 


duct is very nnHke that of a lover. All I can say is, I 
did not win yonr mother's heart by such proceedings.* 
' Katharine has made no complaint of me, sir ? ' 
' Certainly not, and that surprises me still niore.' 
Ferdinand seemed plunged in thought. The silence lasted 
some minutes. Sir BatclifiTe took up the newspaper ; his 
son leant over the mantel-piece, and gazed upon the empiy 
fire-place. At length he turned round and said, ' Father, I 
can bear this no longer ; the engagement between Elathe- 
rine and myself is dissolved.' 

* Grood Grod ! when, and why ? ' exclaimed Sir Batcliffe, 
the newspaper falling from his hand. 

^ Long since, sir ; and ever since I loved another woman, 
and she knew it.' 

^ Ferdinand ! Ferdinand ! ' exclaimed the unhappy father ; 
but he was so overpowered that he could not give utterance 
to his thoughts. He threw himself in a chair, and wrung 
his hands. Ferdinand stood still and silent, like a statue 
of Destiny, gloomy and inflexible. 

^ Speak again,' at length said Sir Hatclifle. ' Let me hear 
yofu speak again. I cannot believe what I have heard. Is 
it indeed true that your engagement with your cousin has 
been long terminated ? ' 

Ferdinand nodded assent. 

* Your poor mother ! ' exclaimed Sir Batclifle. * This 
will kin her.' He rose from his seat, and walked up and 
down the room in great agitation. 

* I knew all was not right,' he muttered to himsel£ * She 
win sink under it ; we must aU sink under it. Madman ! 
you know not what you have done ! ' 

' It is in vain to r^ret^ sir ; my sufferings have been 
greater than yours.' 

* She win pardon you, my boy,' said Sir Hatcliffe, in a 
quicker and kinder tone. * You have lived to repent your 


impetuons folly ; Elatlierine is kind and generous ; sHe loves 
ns all ; she mnsfc love you ; she will pardon yon. Yes ! 
entreat her to forget it ; your mother, your mother has 
great influence with her ; she will exercise it, she will inter- 
fere, you are very young, all will yet be well.' 

' It is as impossible for me to marry Katherine Grandi- 
son, as for you yourself to do it, sir,' said Ferdinand, in a 
tone of calmness. 

* You are not married to another ? * 

* In faith ; I am bound by a tie which I can never break.* 

* And who is this person ? ' 

' She must be nameless, for many reasons.' 

* Ferdinand,' said Sir Batcliffe, * you know not what you 
are doing. My life, your mother's, the existence of our 
family, hang upon your conduct. Yet, yet there is time to 
prevent this desolation. I am controlling my emotions,* 
I wish you to save us, you, all ! Throw yourself at 
your cousin's feet. She is* sofb-hearted ; she may yet be 
yours ! ' 

' Dear father, it cannot be.* 

* Then, then, welcome ruin,' exclaimed Sir Batclifle, in a 
hoarse voice. * And,' he continued, pausing between every 
word, from the difficulty of utterance, *if the conviction 
that you have destroyed all our hopes, rewarded us for all 
our affection, our long devotion, by blasting every fond idea 
that has ever illumined our sad lives, that I and Constance, 
poor fools, have clnng and clung to ; if this conviction can 
console you, sir, enjoy it ' 

* Ferdinand ! my son, my child, that I never have spoken 
an unkind word to, that never gave me cause to blame or 
check him, your mother will be home soon, your poor, poor 
mother. Do not let me welcome her with all this misery. 
Tell me it is not true ; recall what you have said ; let us 
forget these harsh words • reconcile yourself to your cousin; 
let us bo happy.' 


* Fatlier, if my heart's blood conld secure yonr happiness, 
my life were ready ; but this I caimot do.' 

* Do you know what is at stake ? Everything. All, all, 
all! We can see Armine no more; our home is gone. 
Your mother and myself must be exiles. Oh ! you have 
not thought of this : say you have not thought of this.' 

Ferdinand hid his face; his father, emboldened, urged 
the fond plea. . * You will save us, Ferdinand, you will be 
our preserver ? It is all forgotten, is it not ? It is a 
lovers' quarrel, after all ? ' 

* Father, why should I trifle with your feelings ? why 
should I feign what can never be ? This sharp interview, 
so long postpone^, ought not now to be adjourned. In- 
dulge no hopes, for there are none.' 

* Then by every sacred power I revoke every blessing 
that since your birth I have poured upon your head. I 
recall the prayers that every night I have invoked upon 
your being. Great God ! I cancel them. You have be- 
trayed your cousin ; you have deserted your mother and 
myself; you have first sullied the honour of our house, 
and now you have destroyed it. Why were you bom ? 
What have we done that your mother's womb should 
produce such a curse ? Sins of my father, they are visited 
upon me ! And Glastonbury, what will Glastonbury say ? 
Glastonbury, who sacrificed his fortune for you.' 

* Mr. Glastonbury knows all, sir, and has always been 

my confidant.* 

' Is he a traitor ? For when a son deserts me, I know 
not whom to trust.' 

* He.has no thoughts but for our welfare, sir. Ho will 
convince you, sir, I cannot marry my cousin.' 

* Boy, boy ! you know not what you say. Not marry 
your cousin ! Then let us die. It were better for us all 
to die.' 

* My father ! Be cabn, I beseech you ; you have spoken 


harsh words; I have not deserted you or my mother; I 
never will. If I have wronged my cousin, I have severely 
suffered, and she has most freely forgiven me. She is my 
dear fiiend. As for our house : tell me, would you have 
that house preserved at the cost of my happiness ? You 
are not the father I supposed, if such indeed be your wish.' 

* Happiness ! Fortune, family, beauty, youth, a sweet 
and charming spirit, if these will not secure a man's hap- 
piness, I know not what might. And these I wished you 
to possess.' 

' Sir, it is in vain for us to converse upon this subject. 
See Glastonbury, if you will. He can at least assure you 
that neither my feelings are light nor my conduct hasiy. 
I will leave you now.' 

Ferdinand quitted the room ; Sir Ratcliffe did not notice 
his departure, although he was not unaware of it. He 
heaved a deep sigh, and was apparently plunged in pro- 
found thought. 




It must be confessed that the affairs of our friends were 
in a critical state : everyone interested felt that something 
decisive in their respective fortunes was at hand. And yet, 
so vain are all human plans and calculations, that the nn- 
ftvoidable crisis was brought about by an incident which 
no one anticipated. It so happened that the stormy inter- 
view between Sir Ratcliffe and his son was overheard by a 
servant. This servant, who had been engaged by Miss 
Grandison in London, was a member of a club to which 
a confidential clerk of Messrs. Morris and Levison be- 
longed. In the ensuing evening, when this worthy knight 


of the shonlder-knofc just dropped out for an hour to look 
in at tills choice society, smoke a pipe, and talk over the 
affairs of his mistress and the nation, he announced the 
important fact tliat the match between Miss Grandison 
and Captain Armine was *no go,' which, for his part, h© 
did not regret, as he thought his mistress ought to look 
higher. The confidential clerk of Messrs. Morris and 
Levison listened in silence to this important intelligence, 
and communicated it the next morning to his employers. 
And so it happened that a very few days afterwards, as 
Ferdinand was lying in bed at his hotel, the door of his 
chamber suddenly opened, and an individual, not of the 
most prepossessing appearance, being much marked with 
the small-pox, reeking with gin, and wearing top-boots and 
a belcher handkerchief, rushed into his room and enquired 
whether he were Captain Armine. 

* The same,' said Ferdinand. * And pray, sir, who are 

* Don't wish to be unpleasant,' was the answer, * but, 
sir, you are my prisoner.' 

There is something exceedingly ignoble in an arrest: 
Ferdinand felt that sickness come over him which the un- 
initiated in such ceremonies must experience. However, 
he rallied, and enquired at whose suit these proceedings 
were taken. 

* Messrs. Morris and Levison, sir.' 

' Cannot I send for my lawyer and give bail ? ' 
The bailiff shook his head. ' You see, sir, you are taken 
in execution, so it is impossible.' 

* And the amount of the debt ? ' 
' Is 2,800Z., sir.' 

« Well, what am I to do ?' 

* Why, sir, you must go along with us. We will do it 
very quietly. My follower is in a hackney-coach at the 
door, sir. You can just step in as pleasant as possible. I 


suppose you would like to go to a house, and then you can 
send for your Mends, you know.' 

* Well, if you will go down stairs, I will come to you.' 
The bailiff grinned. * Can't let you out of my sight, 


* Why, I cannot dress if you are here.' 

The bailiff examined the room to see if there were any 
mode of escape ; there was no door but the entrance ; the 
window offered no chance. * Well, sir,' he said, * I likes to 
do things pleasant. I can stand outside, sir ; but you must 
be quick.' 

Ferdinand rang for his servant. When Louis clearly 
understood the state of affairs, he was anxious to throw the 
bailiff out of the window, but his master prevented him. 
Mr. Glastonbury had gone out some two hours ; Ferdinand 
sent Louis with a message to his family, to say he was 
about leaving town for a few days ; and impressing upon 
him to be careful not to let them know in Brook-street 
what had occurred, he completed his rapid toilet and ac- 
companied the sheriff's officer to the hackney-coach that 
was prepared for him. 

As they jogged on in silence, Ferdinand revolved in his 
mind how it would be most advisable for him to act. Any 
application to his own lawyer was out of tho question. 
That had been tried before, and he felt assured that there 
was not the sUghtest chance of that gentleman discharging 
so large a sum, especially when he was aware that it was 
only a portion of his client's liabilities; he thought of 
applying for advice to Count Mirabel or Lord Catchim- 
whocan, but with what view ? He would not borrow the 
money of them, even if they would lend it ; and as it was, 
he bitterly reproached himself for having availed himself 
so easily of Mr. Bond Sharpe's kind offices. At this mo- 
ment, he could not persuade himself that his conduct had 
been strictly honourable to that gentleman. He had not 


been feank in the exposition of his situation. The money 
had been advanced under a false impression, if not abso- 
lutely borrowed under a false pretence. He cursed Catchim- 
whocan and his levity. The honour of the Armines was 
gone, like everything else that once belonged to them. The 
result of Ferdinand's reflections was, that he was utterly 
done up ; that no hope or chance of succour remained for 
him; that his career was closed; and not daring to con- 
template what the consequences might be to his miserable 
parents, he made a desperate effort to command his feelings. 
Here the coach turned up a dingy street, leading out of 
the lower end of Oxford- street, and stopped before a large 
but gloomy dwelling, which Ferdinand's companion in- 
formed him was a spunging-house. * I suppose you would 
like to have a private room, sir; you can have every 
accommodation here, sir, and feel quite at home, I assure 

In pursuance of this suggestion. Captain Armine was 
ushered into the best drawing-room, with barred windows, 
and treated in the most aristocratic manner. It was evi- 
dently the chamber reserved only for unfortunate gentle- 
men of the utmost distinction. It was amply furnished 
with a mirror, a loo-table, and a very hard sofa. The walls 
were hung with old-fashioned caricatures by Banbury ; the 
fire-irons were of polished brass ; over the mantel-piece 
was the portrait of the master of the house, which was evi- 
dently a speaking likeness, and in which Captain Armine 
fancied he traced no slight resemblance to his Mend Mr. 
Levison; and there were also some sources of literary 
amusement in the room, in the shape of a Hebrew Bible 
and the Racing Calendar. 

After walking up and down the room for an hour, medi- 
tating over the past, for it seemed hopeless to trouble him- 
self any further with the future, Ferdinand began to feel 
fidnt, for it may be recollected that he had not even break- 

E E 


fasted. So pulling the bell-rope witli sucli force that it 
fell to the gronnd, a fiiimy little waiter immediately 
appeared, awed by the soyereign ring, and haying, indeed, 
reoeiyed priyate intelligence from the bailiff that the gentle- 
man in the drawing-room was a regular nob. 

And here, perhaps, I should remind the reader, that of 
all the great distinctions in life none perhaps is more im- 
portant than that which diyides mankind into the two 
great sections of Nobs and Snobs. It might seem at the 
first glance, that if there were a place in the world which 
shonld leyel all distinctions, it wonld be a debtors' prison. 
But. this wonld be quite an error. Almost at the very 
moment that Captain Armine arriyed at his sorrowfal 
hotel, a poor deyil of a tradesman who had been arrested 
for fifty pounds, and torn from his wife and &mily, had 
been forced to repair to the same asylum. He was intro- 
duced into what is styled the coffee-room, being a long, 
low, unfurnished sanded chamber, with a table and bencheft ; 
and being yeiy anxious to communicate with some friend, 
in order, if possible, to effect his release, and prevent 
himself from being a bankrupt, he had continued meekly 
to ring at intervals for the last half-hour in order that he 
might write and forward his letter. The waiter heard the 
coffee-room bell ring, but never dreamed of noticing it, 
though the moment the signal of the private room sounded, 
and sounded with so much emphasis, he rushed up stairs, 
three steps at a time, and instantly appeared before our 
hero : and all this difference was occasioned by the simple 
circumstance, that Captain Armine was a Nob, and the 
poor tradesman a Snob. 

* I am hungry,' said Ferdinand. * Can I get anything to 
cat at this damned place ? ' 

*What would you like, sir? Anything you choose, 
sir. Mutton chop, rump steak, weal cutlet ? Do you a 
fowl in a quarter of an hour; roast or boiled, sir ? ' 


* I have not breakflEisted yet ; bring me some breakfast.' 

* Yes, sir,' said the little waiter. * Tea, sir ? Coflfee, 
eggs, toast, buttered toast, sir ? Like any meat, sir ? Ham, 
sir P Tongue, sir ? Like a devil, sir ? ' 

* Anything, everything, only be quick.' 

* Yes, sir,' responded the waiter. * Beg pardon, sir. No 
offence, I hope, but custom to pay here, sir. Shall be 
happy to accommodate you, sir. Know what a gentle- 
man is.' 

* Thank you, I will not trouble you,' said Ferdmand ; 
* get me that note changed.' 

* Yes, sir,' replied the little waiter, bowing very low as he 

* Gentleman in best drawing-room wants breakfast. 
Gentleman in best drawing-room wants change for a ten- 
pound note. Breakfast immediately for gentleman in best 
drawing-room. Tea, coffee, toast, ham, tongue, and a 
devil. A regular nob ! ' 

Ferdinand was so exhausted that he had postponed all 
deliberation as to his situation untU he had breakfasted ; 
and when he had breakfasted, he felt dull. It is the con- 
sequence of all meals. Li whatever light he viewed his 
affairs, they seemed inextricable. He was now in a 
spunging-house, he could not long remaia here, he must 
be soon in a gaol. A gaol ! What a bitter termination of 
all his great plans and hopes ! What a situation for one 
who had been betrothed to Henrietta Temple ! He thought 
of his cousin, he thought of her great fortune, which might 
have been his. Perhaps at this moment they were all 
riding together in the Park. In a few days all must be 
known to his father. He did not doubt of the result. 
Armine would immediately be sold, and his father and 
mother, with the wretched wreck of their fortune, would 
retire to the Continent. What a sad vicissitude ! And he 
had done it all ; he, their only child, their only hope, on 

E E 2 


whose image they had lived, who was to restore the house. 
He looked at the bars of his windows, it was a dreadfal 
sight. His poor father, his fond mother, he was quite sure 
their hearts would break. They never could survive all 
this misery, this bitter disappointment of all their hopes. 
Little less than a year ago and he was at Bath, and they 
were all joy and triumph. What a wild scene had his life 
been since ! O Henrietta ! why did we ever meet ? That 
fatal, fatal morning ! The cedar tree rose before him, he 
recalled, he remembered everything. And poor Glaston- 
bury, it was a miserable end. He could not disguise it 
&om himself, he had been most imprudent, he had been 
mad. Ai.d yet so near happiness, perfect, perfect hap- 
piness ! Henrietta might have been his, and they might 
have been so happy ! This confinement was dread^l ; it 
began to press upon his nerves. No occupation, not the 
slightest resource. He took up the Racing Calendar, he 
threw it down again. He knew all the caricatures by 
heart, they infinitely disgusted him. He walked up and 
down the room till he was so tired that he flung himself 
upon the hard sofa. It was intolerable. A gaol must be 
preferable to this. There must be some kind of wretched 
amusement in a gaol ; but this ignoble, this humiliating 
solitude, he was confident he should go mad if he re- 
mained here. He rang the bell again. 

* Yes, sir,' said the little waiter. 

* This place is intolerable to me,' said Captain Armine. 
* I really am quite sick of it. What can I do ? ' 

The waiter looked a little perplexed. 

* I should like to go to gaol at once,' said Ferdinand. 

* Lord ! sir ! ' said the little waiter. 

* Yes ! I cannot bear this,' he continued ; * I shall go mad.' 

* Don't you think your friends will call soon, sir ? ' 

* I have no friends,' said Ferdinand. * I hope nobody will 


* No friends ! ' said the little waiter, who began to think 
Ferdinand was not such a nob as he had imagined. * Why, 
if you have no friends, sir, it would be best to go to the 
Fleet, I think.' 

* By Jove, I think it would be better.' 

* Master thinks your friends will call, I am sure.' 

* Nobody knows I am here,* said Ferdinand. 

* Oh ! ' said the little waiter, * You want to let them 
know, do you, sir ? ' 

* Anything sooner ; I wish to conceal my disgrace.' 

* O sir ! you are not used to it ; I dare say you never 
were nabbed before ? ' 

* Certainly not.' 

* There it is ; if you will be patient, you will see every- 
thing go well.' 

* Never, my good fellow ; nothing can go well.' 

* O sir ! you are not used to it. A regular nob like 
you, nabbed for the first time, and for such a long figure, 
sir, sure not to be diddled. Never knowed such a thing 
yet. Friends sure to stump down, sir.' 

* The greater the claim, the more difficulty in satisfying 
it, I should think,' said Ferdinand. 

* Lord ! no, sir ; you are not used to it. It is only poor 
devils nabbed for their fifties and hundreds that are ever 
done up. A nob was never nabbed for the sum you are, 
sir, and ever went to the wall. Trust my experience. 
I never knowed such a thing.' 

Ferdinand could scarcely refrain from a smile. Even 
the conversation of the little waiter was a relief to him. 

* You see, sir,' continued that worthy, * Morris and 
Levison would never have given you such a deuce of a tick 
unless they knowed your resources. Trust Morris and 
Levison for that. You done up, sir ! a nob like you, that 
Morris and Levison have trusted for such a tick ! Lord ! 
sir, you don't know nothing about it. I could afford to 


giye them fifteen shillings in the pound for their debt 
myself, and a good day's business, too. Friends will stumj^ 
down, sir, trust me.' 

' Well, it is some satisfaction for me to know that the 
will not, and that Morris and Levison will not get 

* Well, sir,' said the incredulous little functionary, * wh^^^ 
I find Morris and Levison lose two or three thousand poun^^ 
by a nob who is nabbed for the first time, I will pay tlie 
money myself^ that is all I know.' 

Here the waiter was obliged to leaye Ferdinand, but lie 
proved his confidence in that gentleman's fortunes by his 
continual civility, and in the course of the day brought 
him a stale newspaper. It seemed to Ferdinand that the 
day would never close. The waiter pestered him about 
dinner, eulogising the cook, and assuring him that his 
master was &mous for champagne. Although he had no 
appetite, Ferdinand ordered dinner in order to ensure the 
occurrence of one incident. The champagne made him 
drowsy ; he was shown to his room ; and for a while he 
forgot his cares in sleep. 



Henrietta Temple began once more to droop. This char 
was not unnoticed by her constant companion Lord Mo 
fort, and yet he never permitted her to be aware of 
observation. All that he did was still more to study 
amusement; if possible, to be still more considerate 
tender. Miss Grandison, however, was far less delicate 
omitted no opportunity of letting Miss Temple knov 
she thought that Henrietta was very unwell, and th 


was quite convinced Henrietta was thinking of Ferdinand. 
Nay! she was not satisfied to confine these intimations to 
Miss Temple ; she impressed her conviction of Henrietta's 
indisposition on Lord Montfort, and teased him with asking 
his opinion of the cause. 

* What do you think is the cause, Miss Grandison ? ' said 
his lordship, very quietly. 

* Perhaps London does not agree with her ; but then, 
when she was ill before she was in the country; and it 
seems to me to be the same illness. I wonder you do not 
notice it, Lord Montfort. A lover to be so insensible, I 
am surprised ! ' 

* It is tiseless to notice that which you cannot remedy.' 

* Why do you not call in those who can ofier remedies P ' 
said Miss Grandison. * Why not send for Sir Henry ? ' 

' I think it best to leave Henrietta alone,' said Lord 

' Do you think it is the mind, then ? ' said Miss Gran- 

* It may be,* said Lord Montfort. 

* It may be ! Upon my word, you are very easy.' 

' I am not indifferent, Miss Grandison. There is nothing 
that I would not do for Henrietta's welfare.' 

' Oh ! yes, there is ; there is something,' said Miss 
Grandison, rather maliciously. 

* You are really an extraordinary person. Miss Grandi- 
son,' said Lord Montfort. *What can you mean by so 
strange an observation ? ' 

' I have my meaning ; but I suppose I may have a mys- 
tery as well as anybody else.' 

* A mystery. Miss Grandison ? ' 

* Yes ! a mystery. Lord Montfort. There is not a single 
individual in the three families who has not a mystery, ex- 
cept myself; but I have found out something. I feel quite 
easy now : we are all upon an equality.* 


* You are a strange person.' 

' It may be so ; bat I am bappy, for I bave nothing on 
my mind. Now tbat poor Ferdinand has told Sir Eatcliffe 
we are not going to marry, I bave no part to play. I hate 
deception ; it is almost as bitter as marrying one who is in 
love with another person.' 

' That mnst indeed be bitter. And is tbat the reason tbat 
yon do not marry your cousin ? * enquired Lord Montfort. 

* I may be in love with another person, or I may not,' 
said Miss Grandison. 'But, however that may be, the 
moment Ferdinand very candidly told me he was, we 
decided not to marry. I think we were wise ; do not you. 
Lord Montfort ? ' 

* K you are happy, you were wise,' said Lord Montfort. 

' Yes, I am pretty happy : as happy as I can well be 
when all my best friends are miserable.' 

* Are they?' 

' I think so : my aunt is in tears ; my uncle in despair; 
Ferdinand meditates suicide; Henrietta is pining away; 
and you, you who are the philosopher of the society, yon 
look rather grave. I fancy I think we are a most miserable 

* I wish we could be all happy,' said Lord Montfort. 

* And so we might, I think,' said Miss Grandison; *at 
least, some of us.' 

' Make us, then,' said Lord Montfort. 
' I cannot make you.' 

* I think you could. Miss Grandison.* 

At this moment Henrietta entered, and the conversation 
assumed a different turn. 

*Will you go with us to Lady Bellair's, Elate?' said 
Miss Temple. ' The duchess has asked me to call there 
this morning.' 

Miss Grandison expressed her willingness ; the carriage 
was waiting, and Lord Montfort ofiered to attend them. 


At this moment the servant entered with a note for Miss 

* From Glastonbury,' she said ; * dear Henrietta, he 
wishes to see me immediately. What can it be ? Go to 
Lady Bellair's, and call for me on your return. You must, 
indeed ; and then we can all go out together.' 

And so it was arranged. Miss Temple, accompanied by 
Lord Montfort, proceeded to Bellair House. 

* Don't come near me,' said the old lady when she saw 
them ; * don't come near me ; I am in despair ; I do not 
know what I shall do ; I think I shall sell all my china. 
Do you know anybody who wants to buy old china ? They 
shall have it a bargain. But I must have ready money ; 
ready money I must have. Do not sit down in that chair ; 
it is only made to look at. Oh ! if I were rich, like you ! 
I wonder if my china is worth three hundred pounds. I 
could cry my eyes out^ that I could. The wicked men ; I 
should like to tear them to pieces. Why is not he in Par- 
liament? and then they could not take him up. They 
never could arrest Charles Fox. I have known him in as 
much trouble as anyone. Once he sent all his furniture 
to my house from his lodgings. He lodged in Bury-street. 
I always look at the house when I pass by. Don't fiddle 
the pens ; I hate people who fiddle. Where is Gregory ? 
where is my bell ? Where is the page ? Naughty boy ! 
why do not you come ? There, I do not want anything ; I 
do not know what to do. The wicked men ! The greatest 
favourite I had : he was so charming ! Charming people 
are never rich ; he always looked melancholy. I think I 
will send to the rich man I dine with; but I forget his 
name. Why do not you tell me his name ? ' 

* My dear Lady Bellair, what is the matter ? ' 

' Don't ask me ; don't speak to me. I tell you I am in 
despair. Oh 1 if I were rich, how I would punish those 
wicked men ! ' 


* Can I do anything ? ' said Lord Montfort. 

* I do not know what you can do. I have got the tic. I 
always have the tic when my friends are in trouble.' 

* Who is in trouble, Lady Bellair ? * 

* My dearest friend ; the only Mend I care about. How 
can you be so hard-hearted? I called upon him this 
morning, and his servant was cr3ring. I must get him a 
place ; he is such a good man, and loves his master. Now, 
do you want a servant ? You never want anything. Ask 
everybody you know whether they want a servant, an 
honest man, who loves hie master. There he is oryiiig 
down stairs, in Gregory's room. Poor, good creature! I 
could cry myself, only it is of no use.' 

* Who is his master ? ' said Lord Montfort. 

* Nobody you know ; yes ! you know him very well. It 
is my dear, dear friend ; you know him very well. The 
bailiffs went to his hotel yesterday, and dragged him out 
of bed, and took him to prison. Oh ! I shall go quite dis- 
tracted. I want to sell my china to pay his debts. Whero 
is Miss Twoshoes ? ' continued her ladyship ; * why don't 
you answer ? You do everything to plague me.' 

' Miss Qrandison, Lady Bellair ? ' 

* To be sure ; it is her lover.' 

* Captain Armine?' 

* Have I not been telling you all this time ? They have 
taken him to prison.' 

Miss Temple rose and left the room. 

* Poor creature ! she is quite shocked. She knows him, 
too,' said her ladyship. ^ I am afraid he is quite mined. 
There is a knock. I will make a subscription for hiTn . I 
dare say it is my grandson. He is very rich, and very good- 

'My dear Lady Bellair,' said Lord Montfort, rising, 
* favour me by not saying a word to anybody at present. 
I will just go in the next room to Henrietta. She is inti- 


mate with the family, and mnch affected. Now, my dear 
lady, I entreat yon,' contitined his lordship, * do not say a 
word. Captain Armine has good Mends, but do not speak 
to strangers. It will do harm ; it will indeed.' 

* Yon are a good creature ; you are a good creature. Qt> 

*Lady Frederick Berrington, my lady,' announced the 

* She is very witty, but very poor. It is no use speaking 
to her. I won't say a word. Go to Miss Thingabob : go, 
go.' And Lord Montfort escaped into the saloon as Lady 
Frederick entered. 

Henrietta was lying on the so&, her countenance was 
hid, she was sobbing convulsively. 

' Henrietta,' said Lord Montfort, but she did not answer. 
'Henrietta,' he again said, 'dear Henrietta! I will do 
whatever you wish.' 

' Save him, save him ! ' she exclaimed. ' Oh ! you cannot 
save him ! And I have brought him to this ! Ferdinand ! 
dearest Ferdinand ! oh ! I shall die ! ' 

' For God's sake, be calm,' said Lord Montfort, ' there is 
nothing I will not do for you, for him.' 

'Ferdinand, Ferdinand, my own, own Ferdinand, oh! 
why did we ever part ? Why was I so unjust, so wicked ? 
And he was true ! I cannot survive his disgrace and misery. 
I wish to die ! ' 

' There shall be no disgrace, no misery,' said Lord Mont- 
fort, ' only for God's sake, be calm. There is a chattering 
woman in the next room. Hush ! hush ! I tell you I will 
do everything.* 

' You cannot ; you must not ; you ought not ! Kind, 
generous Bigby ! Pardon what I have said ; forget it ; 
but indeed I am so wretched, I can bear this life no 

' But you shall not be wretched, Henrietta ; you shall be 


Lapp J ; everybody shall be happy. I am Armine's frieiv^ 
I am indeed. I will prove it. On my honour, I will prc^--ve 
that I am his best friend.' 

* You must not. You are the last person, you are indeed 
He is so proud ! Anything from us will be death to him. 
Yes ! I know him, ho will die sooner than be under an 
obligation to either of us.' 

' You shall place him under still greater obligations than 
this,' said Lord Montfort. *Yes! Henrietta, if he Iiave 
been true to you, you shall not be false to him.' 

* Digby, Digby, speak not such strange words. I am 
myself again. I left you that I might be alone. Best and 
most generous of men, I have never deceived you ; pardon 
the emotions that even you were not to witness.' 

' Take my arm, dearest, let us walk into the garden. I 
wish to speak to you. Do not tremble. I have nothing 
to say that is not for your happiness ; at all times, and 
under all circumstances, the great object of my thoughts.' 

He raised Miss Temple gently from the sofa, and they 
walked away far from the observation of Lady Bellair, or 
the auricular powers, though they were not inconsiderable, 
of her lively gUest. 



In the meantime morning broke upon the unfortunate Fer- 
dinand. He had forgotten his cares in sleep, and, when he 
woke, it was with some difficulty that he recalled the 
unlucky incident of yesterday, and could satisfy himself 
that he was indeed a prisoner. But the bars of his bed- 
room window left him not very long in pleasing doubt. 


His friend, the little waiter, soon made his appearance. 

* Slept pretty well, sir ? Same break&st as yesterday, sir ? 
Tongue and am, sir ? Perhaps you would like a kidney 
instead of a devil ? It will be a change.' 

' I have no appetite.' 

* It will come, sir. You an't used to it. Nothing else to 
do here but to eat. Better try the kidney, sir. Ls there 
anything you fancy?' 

* I have made up my mind to go to gaol to-day.' 

* Lord ! sir, don't think of it. Something will turn up, 
sir, take my word.' 

And sooth to say, the experienced waiter was not wrong. 
For briuging in the breakfast, followed by an underling 
with a great pomp of plated covers, he informed Ferdinand 
with a chuckle, that a gentleman was enquiring for him. 

* Told you your friends would come, sir.' 

The gentleman was introduced, and Ferdinand beheld 
Mr. Glastonbury. 

* My dear Glastonbury,' said Ferdinand, scarcely daring 
to meet his glance, * this is very kind, and yet I wished to 
have saved you this.' 

* My poor child,' said Glastonbury. 

* Oh ! my dear friend, it is all over. This is a more bitter 
m.oment for you even than for me, kind friend. This is a 
terrible termination of all your zeal and labours.' 

* Nay ! ' said Glastonbury ; * let us not think of anything 
but the present. For what are you held in durance ? ' 

* My dear Glastonbury, if it were only ten pounds, I could 
not permit you to pay it. So let us not talk of that. This 
m.ust have happened sooner or later. It has come, and 
come unexpectedly: but it must be borne, like all other 

* But you have friends, my Ferdinand.' 

* Would that I had not ! All that I wish now is that I 
were alone in the world. If I could hope that my parents 


would leave me to myself, I should be comparatively easy. 
Bnt when I think of them, and the injnry I mnst do them, 
it is hell, it is hell.' 

* I wish you would tell me your exact situation,' said Mr. 

' Do not let us talk of it ; does my father know of this ?' 
' Not yet.' 

* 'Tis well ; he may yet have a happy day. He will sell 

Glastonbury shook his head and sighed. ' Is it so bad?' 
he said. 

' My dearest friend, if you will know the worst, take it. I 
am here for nearly three thousand pounds, and I owe at 
least ten more.' 

' And they will not take bail ? ' 

' Not for this debt; they cannot. It is a judgment debt, 
the only one.' 

' And they gave you no notice ? ' 

^None: they must have heard somehow or other that 
my infernal marriage was off. They have all waited for 
that. And now that you see that affairs are past remedy, 
let us talk of other topics, if you will be so kind as to 
, remain half an hour in this dungeon. I shall quit it 
directly ; I shall go to gaol at once.' 

Poor Glastonbury, he did not like to go, and yet it was 
a most melancholy visit. What could they converse about? 
Conversation, except on the interdicted subject of Ferdi- 
nand's affairs, seemed quite a mockery. At last, Ferdinand 
said, ^ Dear Glastonbury, do not stay here ; it only makes 
us both unhappy. Send Louis with some clothes for me, 
and some books. I will let you know before I leave this 
place. Upon reflection, I shall not do so for two or three 
days, if I can stay as long. See my lawyer ; not that he 
will do anything ; nor can I expect hm ; but he may as 
well call and see me. Adieu, dear friend.' 


Glastonbury was abont to retire, when Ferdinuid called 
him back. ' This affair shonld be kept qtdet,' he said. ' I 
told Lonis to say I was out of town in Brook-street. I 
shonld be sorry were Miss Temple to hear of it, at least 
imta after her marriage.' 

Ferdinand was once more alone with the mirror, the loo- 
table, the hard sofa, the caricatares which he hated even 
worse than his host's portrait, the Hebrew Bible, and the 
Bacing Calendar. It seemed a year that he had been shnt 
up in this apartment, instead of a day, he had grown so 
fiaTnilmr with every object. And yet the visit of Glaston- 
bury had been an event, and he could not refrain from 
pondering over it. A spunging-house seemed such a 
strange, such an unnatural scene, for such a character. 
Ferdinand recalled to his memory the tower at Armine, 
and all its glades and groves, shining in the summer sun, 
and freshened by the summer breeze. What a contrast to 
this dingy, confined, close dungeon ! And was it possible 
that he had ever wandered at will in that fiair scene with a 
companion fairer? Such thoughts might well drive a man 
mad. With all his errors, and all his disposition at present 
not to extenuate them, Ferdinand Armine could not refrain 
frxmi esteeming himself unlucky. Perhaps it is more dis- 
tressing to believe ourselves unfortunate, than to recognise 
ourselves as imprudent. 

A fond mistress or a faithfrd friend, either of these are 
great blessings; and whatever may be one's scrapes in 
life, either of these may well be sources of consolation. 
Ferdinand had a fond mistress once, and had Henrietta 
Temple loved him, why, he might struggle with all these 
calamities ; but that sweet dream was past. As for friends, 
he had none, at least he thought not. Not that he had to 
complain of human nature. He had experienced much 
kindness from mankind, and many were the services he 
had received from kind acquaintances. With the recol- 


lection of Catch, to say nothing of Bond Sharpe, and above 
all, Count Mirabel, fresh in his mind, he could not com- 
plain of his companions. Glastonbmy was indeed a friend, 
but Ferdinand sighed for a friend of his own age, knit to 
him by the same tastes and sympathies, and capable of com- 
prehending all his secret feelings ; a friend who conld even 
whisper hope, and smile in a spnnging-house. 

The day wore away, the twilight shades were descending; 
Ferdinand became every moment more melancholy, when 
suddenly his constant ally, the waiter, rushed into the 
room. ' My eye, sir, here is a regular nob enquiring for 
you. I told you it would be all right.' 

•Who is it?' 

• Here he is coming up.' 

Ferdinand caught the triumphant tones of Mirabel on 
the staircase. 

•Which is the room? Show me directly. Ah! Armine, 
mon ami ! mon chor ! Is this your friendship ? To be in 
this cursed hole, and not send for me ! C'est une maavaise 
plaisanterie to pretend we are friends! How are yon, 
good fellow, fine fellow, excellent Armine? If you were 
not here I would quarrel with you. There, go away, man.* 
The waiter disappeared, and Count Mirabel seated himself 
on the hard so&. 

•My dear fellow,' continued the Count, twirling the 
prettiest cane in the world, •this is a b^tise of you to 
be here and not send for me. Who has put you here ? ' 

• My dear Mirabel, it is all up.' 

• Pah ! How much is it ? ' 

•I tell you I am done up. It has got about that the 
marriage is off, and Morris and Levison have nabbed me 
for all the arrears of my cursed annuities.' 

• But how much ? ' 

• Between two and three thousand.' 
The Count Mirabel gave a whistle. 


* I brought five hundred, which I have. We must get 
the rest somehow or other.' 

* My dear Mirabel, you are the most generous fellow in 
the world; but I have troubled my friends too much. 
Nothing will induce me to take a sou from you. Besides, 
between ourselves, not my least mortification at this mo- 
ment is some 1,500Z., which Bond Sharpe let me have the 
other day for nothing, through Catch.' 

' Pah ! I am sorry about that, though, because he would 
have lent us this money. I will ask Bevil.' 

* I would sooner die.' 

* I will ask him for myself.' 

* It is impossible.' 

* We will arrange it : I tell you who will do it for us. 
He is a good fellow, and immensely rich: it is Fitzwarrene; 
he owes me great favours.' 

* Dear Mirabel, I am delighted to see you. This is good 
and kind. I am so damned dull here. It quite gladdens 
me to see you ; but do not talk about money.' 

* Here is 5001, ; four other fellows at 500?. we can 
nianage it.' 

* No more, no more ! I beseech you.' 

* But you cannot stop here. Quel dr61e appartement ! 
Before Charley Doricourt was in Parliament he was always 
in these sort of houses, but I got him out somehow or 
other; I managed it. Once I bought of the fellow five 
hundred dozen of champagne.' 

* A new way to pay old debts, certainly,' said Ferdinand. 

* I tell you ; have you dined ? ' 

* I was going to ; merely to have something to do.' 

* I will stop and dine with you,' said the Count, ringing 
the bell, *and we will talk over afiairs. Laugh, my 
friend ; laugh, my Armine : this is only a scene. This is 
life. What can we have for dinner, man ? I shall dine 

F F 


* Gentleman's dinner is ordered, my lord ; qnite ready,' 
said the waiter. * Ohampague in ice, my lord ? ' 

* To be sxire ; everything that is good. Mon cher Armine, 
we Shall have some fan.' 

* Yes, ray lord,' said the waiter, running down stairs. 
* Dinner for best drawing-room directly; green-pea-soup, 
turbot, beefsteak, roast duck and boiled chicken, eveiy- 
thing that is good, champagne in ice ; two regular nobs !' 

The dinner soon appeared, and the two friends seated 

* Potage admirable ! ' said Count Mirabel. ' The best 
champagne I ever drank in my life. Mon brave, yonr 
health. This must be Charley's man, by the wine. I 
think we will have him up ; he will lend us some money. 
Finest turbot I ever ate ! I will give you some of the fins. 
Ah ! you are glad to see me, my Armine, you are glad to 
see your friend. Encore champagne ! Good Armine, ex- 
cellent Armine! Keep up your spirits, I will manage 
these fellows. You must take some bifbeak. The most 
tender bifteak I ever tasted ! This is a fine dinner. Encore 
un verre ! Man, you may go ; don't wait.' 

* By Jove, Mirabel, I never was so glad to see anybody 
in my life. Now you are a friend ; I feel quite in spirits.' 

* To be sure ! always be in spirits. C'est une b^tise not 
to be in spirits. Everything is sure to go well. You will 
see how I will manage these fellows, and I will come and 
dine with you every day until you are out : you shall not 
be here eight-and-forty hours. As I go home I will stop 
at Mitchell's and get you a novel by Paul de Kock. Have 
you ever read Paul de Kock's books ? ' 

* Never,' said Ferdinand. 

* What a fortunate man to be arrested ! Now you can 
read Paul de Kock! By Jove, you are the most lucky 
fellow I know. You see, you thought yourself very miser- 
able in being arrested. 'Tis the finest thing in the world, 


for now yon will read " Mon Voisin Baymond." There 
are always two sides to a case.' 

' I am content to believe myself yeiy Incky in liaying sneh 
a Mend sa yon,' said Ferdinand ; * bnt now as these things 
are cleared away, let ns talk oyer afifairs. Have yon seen 
Henrietta ? ' 

* Of conrse, I see her every day.' 

' I hope she will not know of my crash nntil she has 

* She will not, nnless yon tell her.' 

' And when do yon think she will be married ? ' 

* When yon please.' 

' Cher ami ! point de moqnerie ! ' 

' By Jove, I am qnite serions,' exclaimed the Connt. ' I 
am as certain that jon wiU marry her as that we are in 

this daxnned spnBg4-l«>B8e.' 

* Nonsense ! ' 

* The very finest sense in the world. K yon will not 
marry her, I will myself for I am resolved that good Mont- 
fort shall not. It shall never be said that I interfered 
withont a result* Why, if she were to marry Montfort 
now, it would min my character. To marry Montfort 
after all my trouble : dining with that good Temple, and 
opening the mind of that little Grandison, and talking fine 
things to that good duchess ; it would be a &ilure.' 

* What an odd fellow you are, Mirabel ! ' 

* Of course ! Would you have me like other people and 
not odd ? We will drink la belle Henriette ! Fill up ! 
You will be my friend when you are married, eh ? Mon 
Armine, excellent garden ! How we shall laugh some 
day ; and then this dinner, this dinner will be the best 
dinner we ever had ! ' 

' But why do you think there is the slightest hope of 

Henrietta not marrying Montfort ? ' 

'Because my knowledge of human nature assures me 



that a young woman, very beautiful, very rich, with a very 
high spirit, and an only daughter, will never go and marry 
one man when she is in love with another, and that other 
one, my dear fellow, like you. You are more sure of get- 
ting her becaujse she is engaged.' 

What a wonderful thing is a knowledge of human 
nature! thought Ferdinand to himself. The Count's 
knowledge of human nature is like my friend the waiter's 
experience. One assures me that I am certain to marry a 
woman because she is engaged to another person, and the 
other, that it is quite clear my debts will be paid because 
they are so large. The Count remained with his friend 
until eleven o'clock, when everybody was locked up. He 
invited himself to dine with him to-morrow, and promised 
that he should have a whole collection of French, novels 
before he awoke. And assuring him over and over again 
that he looked upon him as the most fortunate of all his 
friends, and that if^he broke the bank at Crocky's to-night, 
which he fancied he should, he would send him two or 
three thousand pounds ; at the same time he shook him 
heartily by the hand, and descended the staircase of the 
spunging-house, humming * Vive la Bagatelle ! ' 



Although, when Ferdinand was once more lefb alone t-o 
his reflections, it did not appear to him that anything had 
occurred which should change his opimiom of his forlorn 
lot, there was something, nevertheless, inspiring in the 
visit of his friend Count Mirabel. It did not seem to him, 
indeed, that he was one whit nearer extrication from his 
difficulties than before ; and as for the wild hopes as to 
Henrietta, he dismissed them from his mind as the mere 


fantastio schemes of a sanguine spirit, and yet his gloom, 
by some process difficult to analyse, had in great measure 
departed. It could not be the champagne, for that was a 
remedy he had previously tried; it was in some degree 
doubtless the magic sympathy of a joyous temperament : 
but chiefly it might, perhaps, bo ascribed to the flattering 
conviction that ho possessed the hearty friendship of a man 
whose good- will was, in every view of the case, a very envi- 
able possession. With such a friend as Mirabel, he could 
not deem himself quite so unlucky as in the morning. If 
he were fortunate, and fortunate so unexpectedly, in this 
instance, he might be so in others. A vague presentiment 
that he had seen the worst of life came over him. It was 
equally in vain to justify the consoling conviction or to 
resist it ; and Ferdinand Armine, although in a spunging- 
house, fell asleep in better humour with his destiny than 
he had been for the last eight months. 

His dreams were charming : he fancied that he was at 
Armine, standing by the Barbary rose-tree. It was moon- 
light ; it was, perhaps, a slight recollection of the night ho 
had looked upon the garden from the window of his cham- 
ber, the night after he had flrst seen Henrietta. Suddenly, 
Henrietta Temple appeared at his window, and waved her 
hand to him with a smiling face. He immediately plucked 
for her a flower, and stood with his offering beneath her 
window. She was in a riding-habit, and she told him 
that she had just returned from Italy. He invited her to 
descend, and she disappeared ; but instead of Henrietta, 

there came forward from the old Place the duchess, 

who immediately enquired whether he had seen his oousin ; 
and then her grace, by some confused process common in 
dreams, turned into Glastonbury, and pointed to the rose- 
tree, where, to his surprise, Katherine was walking with 
Lord Montfort. Ferdinand called out for Henrietta, but, 
as she did not appear, he entered the Place, where he 


found Connt Mirabel dining by himself, and jnst drinking 
a glass of champagne. He complained to Mirabel that 
Henrietta had disappeared, bnt his friend langhed at him, 
and said that, after such a long ride, leaving Italy only 
yesterday, he conld scarcely expect to see her. Satisfied 
with this explanation, Ferdinand joined the Connt at his 
banqnet, and was woke from his sleep and his dream 
apparently by Mirabel drawing a cork. 

Ah ! why did he ever wake ? It was so real ; he had 
seen her so plainly ; it was life ; it was the very smile she 
wore at Dncie ; that sunny glance, so foil of joy, beaniy, 
and love, which he coxdd live to gaze on ! And now he 
was in prison, and she was going to be married to another. 
Oh ! there are things in this world that may well break 

The cork of Connt Mirabel was, however, a substantial 
sound, a gentle tap at his door : he answered it, and the 
waiter entered his chamber. 

* Beg pardon, sir, for disturbing you ; only eight o'clock.' 

* Then why the deuce do you disturb me ?' 

* There has been another nob, sir. I said as how yon 
were not up, and he sent his compliments and said as 
how he would call in an hour, as he wished to see yon' 

•Was it the Count?' 

*No, sir; but it was a regular nob, sir, for he had a 
coronet on his cab. But he would not leave his name.' 

* Catch, of course,' thought Ferdinand to himself. * And 
sent by Mirabel. I shoxdd not wonder if, after all, they 
have broken the bank at Crocky's. Nothing shaD. induce 
me to take a ducat.' 

However, Ferdinand thought fit to rise, and contrived 
to descend to the best drawing-room about a quarter of an 
hour afber the appointed time. To his extreme surprise he 
found Lord Montfort. 

A LOVE STORY. . 439 

* My dear Mend,' said Lord Montfort, looking a little 
confased ; ' I am afraid I have sadly distnrbed yon. But I 
conld not contrive to find yon yesterday nntil it was so 
late that I was ashamed to knock them np here, and I 
thought, therefore, yon wonld excuse this early call, as, 
as, as, I wished to see yon very much indeed.' 

* Yon are extremely kind,' said Captain Armine. ' Bnt 
reaUy I mnch regret that your lordship should have had all 
this trouble.' 

* Oh ! what is trouble under such circumstances ! ' re- 
plied his lordship. * I cannot pardon myself for being so 
stupid as not reaching you yesterday. I never can excuse 
myself for the inconvenience you have experienced.' 

Ferdinand bowed, but was so perplexed that he conld 
not say a word. 

' I hope, my dear Armine,' said his lordship, advancing 
rather slowly, putting his arm within that of Ferdi- 
nand, and then walking up and down the room together, 
'I hope you wiU act at this moment towards me as 
I would towards you, were our respective situations 
changed? ' 

Ferdinand bowed, but said nothing. 

* Money, you know, my good fellow,' continued Lord 
Montfort, ' is a disagreeable thing to talk about ; but there 
are circumstances which should deprive such conversation 
between us of any awkwardness which otherwise might 

'I am not aware of them, my lord,' said Ferdinand, 
^ though your good feelings command my gratitude.' 

*I think, upon reflection, we shall find that there are 
some,' said Lord Montfort. * For the moment I will only 
hope that you will esteem those good feelings, and which, 
on my part, I am anxious should ripen into sincere and 
intimate Mendship, as sufficient authority for my placing 
your affairs in general in that state that they may in future 


never deprive your family and friends of society necessary 
to their happiness.' 

* My lord, I am sure that adversity has assumed a grace- 
ful hue with me, for it has confirmed my most amiable 
views of human nature. I shall not attempt to express 
what I feel towards your lordship for this generous good- 
ness, but I will say I am profoundly impressed with it ; not 
the less, because I cannot avail myself in the slightest 
degree of your offer.' 

* You are too much a man of the world, I am sure, my 
dear Armine, to be offended by my frankness. I shall, 
therefore, speak without fear of misconception. It does 
appear to me that the offer which I have made you is 
worthy of a little more consideration. You see, my dear 
friend, that you have placed yourself in such a situation 
that however you may act the resxdt cannot be one com- 
pletely satisfactory. The course you should pursue, there- 
fore, as, indeed, all conduct in this world should be, is a 
matter of nice calculation. Have you well considered the 
consequences of your rushing upon ruin? In the first 
place, your family will receive a blow from which even 
fiiture prosperity may not recover them. Your family 
estate, already in a delicate position, may be irrecoverably 
lost ; the worldly consequences of such a vicissitude are 
very considerable ; whatever career you pursue, so long as 
you visibly possess Armine, you rank always among the 
aristocracy of the land, and a family that maintains such 
a position, however decayed, will ultimately recover. I 
hardly know an exception to this rule. I do not think, of 
all men, that you are most calculated to afford one.' 

*What you say has long pressed itself upon us,' said 
Captain Armine. 

* Then, again,' resumed Lord Montfort, * the feelings and 
even interests of your friends are to be considered. Poor 
Glastonbury! I love that old man myself. The fell of 


Anuine might break his heart ; he would not like to leave 
his tower. You see, I know your place.' 

* Poor Glastonbury ! ' said Ferdinand. 

* But above all,' continued Lord Montfort, * the happi- 
ness, nay, the very health and life of your parents, from 
whom all is now concealed, would perhaps be the last and 
costliest sacrifices of your rashness.' 

Ferdinand threw himself on the sofa and covered his face. 

•Tet aU this misery, aU tiiese misfortunes, may be 
avoided, and you yourself become a calm and happy man, 
by, for I wish not to understate your view of the subject, 
Armine, putting yourself under a pecuniary obligation to me. 
A circumstance to be avoided in the common course of life, 
no doubt ; but is it better to owe me a favour and save your 
family estate, preserve your position, maintain your friend, 
and prevent the misery, and probable death, of your 
parents, or be able to pass me in the street, in haughty 
silence if you please, with the consciousness that the luxury 
of your pride has been satisfied at the cost of every circum- 
stance which makes existence desirable ? ' 

* You put the case strongly,' said Ferdinand ; * but no 
reasoning can ever persuade me that I am justified in bor- 
rowing 3,000/., which I can never repay.' 

* Accept it then.' 

* 'Tis the same thing,' said Ferdinand. 

* I think not,' said Lord Montfort ; * but why do you say 
never ? ' 

' Because it is utterly impossible that I ever can.* 

* How do you know you may not marry a woman of large 
fortune ? ' said Lord Montfort. * Now you seem to me 
exactly the sort of man who would marry an heiress.' 

* You are thinking of my cousin,' said Ferdinand. * I 
thought that you had discovered, or that you might have 
learnt, that there was no real intention of our union.' 

*No, I was not thinking of your cousin,' said Lord 


Montfort ; ' though, to tell yon the truth, I was once in 
hopes that you would marry her. However, that I well 
know is entirely out of the question, for I believe Miss 
Grrandison will marry some one else.' 

* Indeed ! ' exclaimed Ferdinand, a little agitated. * Well! 
may she be happy ! I love Elate fix>m the bottom of my 
heart. But who is the fortunate fellow ? ' 

* "lis a lady's secret,' said Lord Montfort. * But let ns 
return to our argument. To be brief; either, my dear 
Armine, you must be convinced by my reasoning, or I must 
remain here a prisoner like yourself; for, to tell you tlie 
truth, there is a £Edr lady before whom I cannot present 
myself except in your company.' 

Ferdinand changed countenance. There wanted but this 
to confirm his resolution, which had scarcely wavered. To 
owe his release to Henrietta's influence with Lord Montfort, 
it was too degrading. 

' My lord,' he said, ' you have touched upon a string that 
I had hoped might have been spared me. This conversa* 
tion must, indeed, cease. My mouth is sealed £rom giving 
you the reasons, which nevertheless render it imperative on 
me to decline your generous offer.* 

* Well, then,' said Lord Montfort, * I must see if another 
can be more successful,' and he held forth a note to the 
astounded Ferdinand, in Henrietta's writing. It dropped 
from Ferdinand's hand as he took it. Lord Montfort 
picked it up, gave it him again, and walked to the other 
end of the room. It was with extreme difficulty that 
Ferdinand prevailed on himself to break the seal. The 
note was short ; the hand that traced the letters must have 
trembled. Thus it ran : — 

* Dearest Ferdinand, — ^Do everything that Digby wishes. 
He is our best friend. Digby is going to marry Katherine ; 
are you happy ? 



Lord Montford looked round ; Ferdinand Armine was 
lying senseless on the sofa. 

Out friend was not of a swooning mood, but we think 
the circmnstances may excuse the weakness. 

As for Lord Montfort, he rang the bell for the little 
waiter, who, the moment he saw what had occurred, hurried 
away and rushed up stairs again with cold water, a bottle 
of brandy, and a blazing sheet of brown paper, which he 
declared was an infallible specific. By some means or other 
Ferdinand was in time recovered, and the little waiter was 
feirly expelled. 

' My dear friend,' said Ferdinand, in a feint voice, • I am 
the happiest man that ever lived ; I hope you will be, I am 
sure you will be; KB>therine is an angel. But I cannot 
speak. It is so strange.' 

' My dear fellow, you really must take a glass of brandy,* 
said Lord Montfort. * It is strange, certainly. But we are 
all happy.' 

* I hardly know where I am,' said Ferdinand, after a few 
minutes. * Am I really alive ? ' 

* Let us think how we are to get out of this place. I 
suppose they will take my cheque. If not, I must be off.' 

* Oh, do not go,' said Ferdinand. * If you go I shall not 
believe it is true. My dear Montfort, is it really true ? ' 

* You see, my dear Armine,' said Lord Montfort, smiling, 
* it was fated that I should marry a lady you rejected. And 
to tell you the truth, the reason why I did not get to you 
yesterday, as I ought to have done, was an unexpected con- 
versation I had with Miss Grandison. I really think this 
arrest was a most fortunate incident. It brought affairs to 
a crisis. We should have gone on playing at cross purposes 
for ever.' 

Here the little waiter entered again with a note and a 

* The same messenger brought them ? ' asked Ferdinand. 


* No, sir ; the Count's servant brought the note, and wsdts 
for an answer ; the packet came by another person.' 

Ferdinand opened the note and read as follows : — 

* Berkeley-square, half-past 7, morning. 

* Mon ami. Best joke in the world ! I broke Crocky's 
bank three times. Of course ; I told you so. I win 15,0001. 
Directly I am awake I will send you the three thousand, and 
I will lend you the rest till your marriage. It will not be 
very long. I write this before I go to bed, that you may 
have it early. Adieu, cher ami. 

* Votre afiectionne, 

* De Mirabel.' 

*My arrest was certainly the luckiest incident in the 
world,' said Ferdinand, handing the note to Lord Montfort. 
* Mirabel dined here yesterday, and went and played on 
purpose to save me. I treated it as a joke. But what is 
this?' Ferdinand opened the packet. The handwriting 
was unknown to him. Ten bank notes of 300Z. each fell to 
the ground. 

* Do I live in fairy land ! ' he exclaimed. * Now who can 
this be ? It cannot be you ; it cannot be Mirabel. It is 
wondrous strange.' 

* I think I can throw some light upon it,* said Lord 
Montfort. *Katherine was mysteriously engaged witli 
Glastonbury yesterday morning. They were out together, 
and I know they went to her lawyer's. There is no doubt 
it is Katherine. I think, under the circumstances of the 
case, we need have no delicacy in availing ourselves of this 
fortunate remittance. It will at least save us time,' said 
Lord Montfort, ringing the bell. * Send your master here 
directly,' he continued to the waiter. 

The sheriflfs oflficer appeared ; the debt, the fees, all were 
paid, and the discharge duly taken. Ferdinand in the mean- 
time went up-stairs to lock up his dressing-case, the Uttle 


waiter rushed after him to pack his portmanteau. Ferdi- 
nand did not forget his zealous Mend, who whispered hope 
when all was black. The little waiter chuckled as he put 
his ten guineas in his pocket. * You see, sir,' he said, * I 
was quite right. Knowed your Mends would sinimp down. 
Fancy a nob like you being sent to quod ! Fiddlededee ! 
You see, sir, you weren't used to it.' 

And so Ferdinand Armine bid adieu to the spunging- 
house, where, in the course of less than eight-and-forty 
hours, he had known alike despair and rapture. Lord 
Montfort drove along with a gaiety unusual to him. 

' Now, my dear Armino,' he said, * I am not a jot the less 
in love with Henrietta than before. I love her as you love 
Katherine. What folly to marry a woman who was in love 
with another person ! I should have made her miserable, 
when the great object of all my conduct was to make her 
happy. Now Katherine really loves me as much as Hen- 
rietta loves you. I have had this plan in my head for a 
long time. I calculated finely ; I was convinced it was the 
only way to make us all happy. And now we shall all be 
related ; wo shall be constantly together ; and we will be 
brother Mends.' 

* Ah ! my dear Montfort,' said Ferdinand, * what will Mr. 
Temple say ? ' 

' Leave him to me,' said Lord Montfort. 

* I tremble,' said Ferdinand, * if it were possible to anti- 
cipate diflBculties to-day.' 

* I shall go to him at once,' said Lord Montfort ; * I am 
not fond of suspense myself, and now it is of no use. AH 
will be right.' 

* I trust only to you,' said Ferdinand ; * for I am as proud 
as Temple. He dislikes me, and he is too rich for me to 
bow down to him.' 

*I take it upon myself,' said Lord Montfort. *Mr. 
Temple is a calm, sensible man. You will laugh at me. 


but the truth is, with him it must be a matter of calcular 
tion : on the one hand, his daughter's happiness, a tuiion 
with a family second to none in blood, alliances, and terri^ 
torial position, and only wanting his wealth to revive all its 
splendour ; on the other, his daughter broken-hearted, and 
a duke for his son-in-law. Mr. Temple is too sensible a 
man to hesitate, particularly when I remove the greatest 
difficulty he must experience. Where shall I put you down? 
Berkeley-square ? ' 



In moments of deep feeling, alike in sudden bursts of 
prosperity as in darker hours, man must be alone. It re- 
quires some self-communion to prepare ourselves for good 
fortune, as well as to encounter difficulty, and danger, and 
disgrace. This violent and triumphant revolution, in his 
prospects and his fortunes was hardly yet completely com- 
prehended by our friend, Ferdinand Armine ; and when he 
had left a note for the generous Mirabel, whose slumbers 
he would not disturb at this early hour, even vnth good 
news, he strolled along up Charles-street, and to the Park, 
in one of those wild and joyous reveries in which we brood 
over coming bliss, and create a thousand glorious conse- 

It was one of those soft summer mornings which are so. 
delightfdl in a great city. The sky was clear, the air was 
bland, the water sparkled in the sun, and the trees seemed 
doubly green and fresh to one who so recently had gazed 
only on iron bars. Ferdinand felt his freedom as well as 
his happiness. He seated himself on a bench and thought 
of Henrietta Temple ! he took out her note, and read it 
over and over again. It was indeed her handwriting! 


Bestless with impending joy, he sanntered to the bridge, 
aind leant over the balustrade, gazing on the waters in 
charmed and charming vacancy. How many inddentSy 
Iiow many characters, how many feelings flitted oyer his 
mem^ory ! Of what sweet and bitter experience did he not 
chew the cud ! Fonr-and-twenty hours ago, and he deemed 
himself the most miserable and forlorn of hnman beings, 
and now all the blessings of ihe world seemed showered at 
his feet! A beautiful bride awaited him, whom he had 
loved with intense passion, and who he had thought but an 
hour ago was another's. A noble fortune, which would 
permit him to redeem his inheritance, and rank him among 
the richest commoners of the reahn, was to be controlled 
by one a few hours back a prisoner for desperate debts. 
The most gifted individuals in the land emulated each 
other in proving which entertained for him the most sincere 
affection. What man in the world had friends like Ferdi- 
nand Armine ? Ferdinand Armine, who, two days back, 
deemed himself alone in the world ! The unswerving de- 
votion of Glastonbury, the delicate affection of his sweet 
cousin, all the magnanimity of the high-souled Montfort, and 
the generosity of the accomplished Mirabel, passed before 
him, and wonderfully affected him. He could not flatter 
lifmaftlf that he indeed merited such singular blessings ; and 
yet with all his faults, which with him were but the conse- 
quences of his fiery youth, Ferdinand had been futhful to 
Henrietta. His constancy to her was now rewarded. As 
for his friends, the future must prove his gratitude to them. 
Ferdinand Armine had great tenderness of disposition, and 
somewhat of a meditative mind; schooled by adversity, 
there was little doubt that his coming career would justify 
his fftvourable destiny. 

It was barely a year since he had returned from Malta, 
but what an eventful twelvemonth ! Everything that had 
occurred previously seemed of another life ; all his ezpe- 


lience was concentrated in that wonderful drama thai bad 
commenced at Bath, and the last scene of which was now 
approaching; the characters, his parents, Grlastonbniy, 
Katherine, Henrietta, Lord Montfort, Count Mirabel, him- 
self, and Mr. Temple ! .j 

Ah ! that was a name that a little disturbed him ; and yefc 
he felt confidence now in Mirabel's prescience ; he could not 
but believe, that with time even Mr. Temple might be re- 
conciled ! It was at this moment that the sound of militaiy 
music fell upon his ear ; it recalled old days ; parades and 
guards at Malta ; times when he did not know Henrietta 
Temple ; times when, as it seemed to him now, he had 
never paused to think or moralise. That was a mad life. 
What a Neapolitan ball was his career thenl It was indeed 
dancing on a volcano. And now aU had ended so happily! 
Oh ! could it indeed be true ? Was it not all a dream of 
his own creation, while his eye had been fixed in abstrac- 
tion on that bright and flowing river? But then there was 
Henrietta's letter. He might be enchanted, but that was 
the talisman. 

In the present unsettled, though hopeless state of affairs, 
Ferdinand woxdd not go home. He was resolved to avoid 
any explanations until he heard from Lord Montfort. He 
shrank from seeing Glastonbury or his cousin. As for 
Henrietta, it seemed to him that he never could have heart 
to meet her again, unless they were alone. Count Mirabel 
was the only person to whom he coxdd abandon his soul, 
and Count Mirabel was still in his first sleep. 

So Ferdinand entered Kensington Grardens, and walked 
in those rich glades and stately avenues. It seems to the 
writer of this history that the inhabitants of London are 
scarcely sufficiently sensible of the beauty of its environs. 
On every side the most charming retreats open to them, 
nor is there a metropolis in the world surrounded by so 
many rural villages, picturesque parks, and elegant casinos. 



With the exception of Constantinople, there is no city in 
the world that can for a moment enter into competition with 
it. For himself, though in his time something of a rambler, 
he is not ashamed in this respect to confess to a legitimate 
Cockney taste ; and for his part he does not know where 
life can flow on more pleasantly than in sight of Kensington 
Grardens, viewing the silver Thames winding by the bowers 
of Rosebank, or inhaling from its terraces the refined air of 
graceful Richmond. 

In exactly ten minutes it is in the power of every man to 
free himself from all the tumxdt of the world ; the pangs of 
love, the throbs of ambition, the wear and tear of play, the 
recriminating boudoir, the conspiring club, the rattling hell; 
and find himself in a subHme sylvan solitude superior to 
the cedars of Lebanon, and inferior only in extent to the 
chestnut forests of Anatolia. It is Kensington Ghirdens that 
is almost the only place that has realised his idea of the 
forests of Spenser and Ariosto. What a pity, that instead 
of a princess in distress we meet only a nursery-maid! 
But here is the fitting and convenient locality to brood over 
our thoughts; to project the great and to achieve the 
happy. It is here that we should get our speeches by 
heart, invent our impromptus ; muse over the caprices of 
our mistresses, destroy a cabinet, and save a nation. 

About the time that Ferdinand directed his steps from 
these green retreats towards Berkeley-square, a servant 
summoned Miss Temple to her father. 

* Is papa alone ? ' enquired Miss Temple. 

* Only my lord with him,' was the reply. 

' Is Lord Montfort here ! ' said Miss Temple, a little 

* My lord has been with master these three hours,' said 
the servant. 








* Is not it wonderfal ? ' said Ferdinand, when he had ' ; 
finished his history to Count Mirabel. 

* Not the least,* said the Count, ' I never knew any tiling ; 
less surprising. 'Tis exactly what I said, 'tis the most 
natural termination in the world.' 

' Ah, mj dear Mirabel, you are a prophet ! What a lucky 
fellow I am to have such a friend as you ! ' 

*To be sure you are. Take some more coffee. What 
are you going to do with yourself? ' 

* I do not know what to do with myself. I really do not- 
like to go anywhere until I have heard from Montfort. I 
think I shall go to my hotel.' 

* I will drive you. It is now three o'clock.' 

But just at this moment, Mr. Bevil called on tbe Count, 
and another hour disappeared. When they were fairly in 
the cabriolet, there were so many places to call at, and so 
many persons to see, that it was nearly six o'clock when 
they reached the hotel. Ferdinand ran up stairs to see if 
there were any letter from Lord Montfort. He found his 
lordship's card, and also Mr. Temple's ; they had called 
about half an hour ago ; there was also a note. These were 
its contents : — 

' GrosTenor-square, Thursday. 

* Mt Dear Captain Armine, 

* I have prepared myself with this note, as I fear I shall 
hardly be so fortunate as to find you at home. It is only 
very recently that I have learnt from Henrietta that yon 
were in London, and I much regret to hear that you have 
been so great an invalid. It is so long since we met, that 
I hope you will dine with us to-day ; and indeed I am so 


anxioos to see yon, that I trust, if yon have nnfortnnately 
made any other engi^ement, that yon may yet contrive to 
gratify my reqnest. It is merely a family party ; yon will 
only meet onr friends from St. James'-sqnare, and yonr 
own circle in Brook-street. I have asked no one else, 
save old Lady Bellair, and yonr friend Connt Mirahel ; and 
Henrietta is so anxions to secure his presence, that I shall 
be greatly obliged by yonr exerting yonr influence to in- 
duce him to accompany you, as I fear there is little hope of 
finding him free. 

' Henrietta joins with me in kindest regards ; and I beg 
yon to believe me, 

* My dear Captain Armine, 

' Most cordially yours, 

* Pelham Temple.' 

* Well, what is the matter ? ' said the Count, when Fer- 
dinand returned to the cabriolet, with the note in his hand, 
and looking very agitated. 

' The strangest note ! ' said Ferdinand. 

* Give it me,' said the Count. * Do you call that strange ? 
'Tis the most regular epistle I ever read ; I expected it. 
*Tis an excellent fellow, that Mr. Temple ; I will certainly 
dine with him, and send an excuse to that old Castlefyshe. 
A f&mily party, all right ; and he asks me, that is proper. 
I should not wonder if it ended by my being your trustee, 
or your executor, or your first child's godfather. Ah^ that 
good Temple is a sensible man. I told you I would settle 
this business for you. Yon should hear me talk to that 
good Temple. I open his mind. A family party ; it will 
be amusing ! I would not miss it for a thousand pounds. 
Besides, I must go to take care of you, for you will be com- 
mitting all sorts of betises. I will give you one turn in 
the park. Jump in, mon enfant. Good Armine, excellent 
fellow, jump in ! You see, I was right ; I am always right. 

o o 2 


But I will confess to yon a secret : I never was so right 
as I have been in the present case. 'Tis the best business J 
that ever was ! ' 



In spite of the Count Mirabers inspiring companionship, ^ 
it must be confessed that Ferdinand's heart failed hini ; 
when he entered Mr. Temple's house. Indeed, had it not > 
been for the encouragement and jolly raillery of his light- 
hearted friend, it is not quite clear that he would have suc- 
ceeded in ascending the staircase. A mist came overhis 
vision as he entered the room; various forms, indeed, 
glanced before him, but he could distinguish none. He 
felt so embarrassed, that he was absolutely miserable. It 
was Hr. Temple's hand that he found he had hold of; the 
calm demeanour and bland tones of that gentleman some- 
what re-assured him. Mr. Temple was cordial, and Count 
Mirabel hovered about Ferdinand, and covered his con- 
fusion. Then he recognised the duchess and his mother; 
they were sitting together, and he went up and saluted 
them. He dared not look round for the lady of the house. 
Lady Bellair was talking to his father. At last he heard 
his name called by the Count. 

* Armine, mon cher, see this beautiful work ! ' and Fer- 
dinand advanced, or rather staggered, to a window where 
stood the Count before a group, and in a minute he clasped 
the hand of Henrietta Temple. He could not speak. 
Katherine was sitting by her, and Lord Montfort standing 
behind her chair. But Count Mirabel never ceased talk- 
ing, and with so much art and tact, that in a few moments 
he had succeeded in producing comparative ease on all 

'a love story. 453 

!* 1*1 am so glad that you have come to-day,' said Hen- 
rietta. Her eyes sparkled with a strange meaning, and 
then she suddenly withdrew her gaze. The rose of her 
cheek alternately glowed and faded. It was a moment of 
great embarrassment, and afterwards they often talked 
of it. 

Dinner, however, was soon announced as served, for 
Mirabel and Ferdinand had purposely arrived at the last 
moment. As the duke advanced to offer his arm to Miss 
Temple, Henrietta presented Ferdinand with a flower, as if 
to console him for the separation. It was a round table ; 
the duchess and Lady Bellair sat on each side of Mr. 
Temple, the duke on the right hand of Miss Temple ; 
where there were so many members of the same family, it 
was difficult to arrange the guests. Ferdinand held back, 
when Count Mirabel, who had secured a seat by Henrietta, 
beckoned to Ferdinand, and saying that Lady Bellair 
wished him to sit next to her, pushed Ferdinand, as he 
himself walked away, into the vacated seat. Henrietta 
caught the Count's eye as he moved off ; it was a laughing 

' I am glad you sit next to me,' said Lady Bellair to the 
Count, * because you are famous. I love famous people, 
and you are very famous. Why don't you come and see 
me ? Now I have caught you at last, and you shall come 
and dine with me the 7th, 8th, or 9th of next month ; I 
have dinner parties every day. You shall dine with me 
on the 8th, for then Lady Frederick dines with me, and 
she will taste you. You shall sit next to Lady Frederick, 
and mind you flirt with her. I wonder if you are as 
amusing as your grandfather. I remember dancing a 
minuet with him at Versailles seventy years ago.' 

* It is well recollected in the family,' said the Count. 

* Ah ! you rogue ! ' said the little lady, chuckling, * you 
lie ! I like a lie sometimes,' she resumed, ' but then it must 


lie a good one. Do you know, I onlj say it to you, but 
am half afraid lies are more amusing than trutk 

* Naturally, said the Count, * because trutli mnst in 
general be commonplace, or it would not be true. 

In the meantime, Ferdinand was seated next to Henrietta ^ 
'J'omple. He might be excused for feeling a little bewH- ) 
dored. • Indeed, the wonderful events of the 1m* foor-and- ■ 
twenty hours were enough to deprive anyone of » <*™^ 
i)lete command over his senses. AVliat marvel, ito, to** 
lie nearly carved his soup, ate his fish with a qKwn, «no 
drank water instead of wine ! In fact, he was Uworiiig 
under a degree of nervous excitement, which renMsed » 
( I iiito impossible for him to observe the proprieties oC »*• 
The proscnco of all these persona was insupportable towffl- 
yivo minutes alone with her in the woods of Ducie, and be 
wouUl have felt quite re-assured. Miss Temple n^ 
avoidinl his glance ! She was, in truth, as agitated « oiBr- 
hA\\ and talked almost entirely to the duke ; yet 
sho trioil to aildress him, and say kind things, 
him Fenliuand; that was quite sufficient to make ct 
happy, ahhough he felt very awkward. He had been ^esssi 
some minutes Wfore he observed that Glastonbury wa* 3US3 
to him. 

• I am 90 ner\-v>us, dear Glastonbury/ said FaOTami- 
' that I do not think I shall be able to remair^ 3. -21* 

• I have hearu socierhi::;:/ sai-i GListonbury. witL » sniie- 
• :hat makes me ou.ire Kud.' 

• I w-ai'-uot help OLiOvinif r2:a: :• is all enofcannnen^ 3Kii 

^Ther^ i;* t»'> wocder. 3:v -iear hoT. znaz yon ar^ «n.- 

m mm 

s'haatttNi,* said OaiJ>rozi-?iiry. 

• Verdiiianvi.* said MLss T^nyl^. ::i a J-'*' voice, "nana is 
taXviJ:^ wjje wi:li voa.' Ffrl:::and iocksd ap ami caaa^re 



* That was a fine horse yon were riding to-day,' said 
)unt Mirabel, across the table, to Miss Grandison. 

* Is it not pretty ? It is Lord Montfort's.' 

* Lord Montfort's ! ' thought Ferdinand. * How strange 
all this seems ! * 

* You were not of the riding party this morning,' said 
bis grace to Henrietta. 

* I have not been very well this day or two,' said Miss 

* Well, I think you are looking particularly well to-day,' 
replied the duke. * What say you, Captain Armine ? ' 

Ferdinand blushed, and looked confused at this appeal, 
and muttered some contradictory compliments. 

* Oh ! I am very well now,' said Miss Temple. 

* You must come and dine with me,' said Lady Bellair 
to Count Mirabel, * because you talk well across a table. 
I want a man who talks well across a table. So few 
can do it without bellowing. I think you do it very 

* Naturally,' replied the Count. * If I did not do it well, 
I should not do it at all.' 

* Ah ! you are audacious,' said the old lady. * I like a 
little impudence. It is better to be impudent than to be 

* Mankind are generally both,' said the Count. 

* I think they are,' said the old lady. * Pray, is the old 
Duke of Thingabob alive ? You know whom I mean : he 
was an emigre, and a relation of yours.' 

* De Crillon. He is dead, and his son too.' 

* He was a great talker,' said Lady Bellair, * but then, he 
was the tyrant of conversation. Now, men were made to 
listen as well as to talk.' 

* Without doubt,' said the Count ; * for Nature has given 
us two ears, but only one mouth.' 

* You said that we might all be very happy,' whispered 


Lord Montforfc to Miss Grandison. 'What think joiLj 
have we succeeded ? ' 

' I think we all look very confused,' said Miss Grandisoiu;^' 
' What a fortunate idea it was inviting Lady Bellair andl 
the Count. They never could look confused.' j. 

* Watch Henrietta,' said Lord Montfort. 

* It is not fair. How silent Ferdinand is ! ' 

* Yes, he is not quite sure whether he is Christopher Slj 
or not,' said Lord Montfort. * What a fine emharrassment ' 
you have contrived, Miss Grandison ! ' ^ 

* Nay, Dighy, you were the author of it. I cannot help \ 
thinking of your interview with Mr. Temple. Ton were • 
prompt ! ' 

* Why, I can be patient, fair Katherine,' said Lord Moat- 
fort ; ' but in the present instance I shrank from suspense, 
more, however, for others than myself. It certainly was a 
singular interview.' 

* And were you not nervous ? ' 

* Why, no ; I felt convinced that the interview could only 
have one result. I thought of your memorable words ; I 
felt I was doing what you wished, and that I was making 
all of us happy. However, all honour be to Mr. Temple ! 
He has proved himself a man of sense.' 

As the dinner proceeded, there was an attempt on all 
sides to be gay. Count Mirabel talked a great deal, and 
Lady Bellair laughed at what he said, and maintained her 
reputation for repartee. Her ladyship had been for a long 
time anxious to seize hold of her gay neighbour, and it was 
evident that he was quite * a favourite.' Even Ferdinand 
grew a little more at his ease. He ventured to relieve 
the duke from some of his labours, and carve for Miss 

* What do you think of our family party ? ' said Henrietta 
to Ferdinand, in a low voice. 

* I can think only of one thing,' said Ferdinand. 


^ *I am so nervous,* she continued, 'tbat it seems to me I 
; shall every minute shriek, and leave the room.* 
V *I feel the same ; I am stupefied.* 

■ * Talk to Mr. Glastonbury ; drink wine, and talk. Look, 

look at your mother ; she is watching us. She is dying to 

speak to you, and so is some one else.' 

At length the ladies withdrew. Ferdinand attended them 

^ to the door of the dining-room. Lady Bellair shook her 

'. £ui at him, but said nothing. He pressed his mother's 

.' liand. * Grood bye, cousin Ferdinand,* said Miss Grandison 

f in a laughing tone. Henrietta smiled upon him as she 

.• passed, by. It was a speaking glance, and touched his 

heart. The gentlemen remained behind much longer than 

was the custom in Mr. Temple's house. Everybody seemed 

resolved to drink a great deal of wine, and Mr. Temple 

always addressed himself to Ferdinand, if anything were 

required, in a manner which seemed to recognise his 

responsible position in the family. 

Anxious as Ferdinand was to escape to the drawing- 
room, he could not venture on the step. He longed to 
speak to Glastonbury on the subject which engrossed, his 
thoughts, but he had not courage. Never did a man, who 
really believed himself the happiest and most fortunate per- 
son in the world, ever feel more awkward and more embar- 
rassed. Was his father aware of what had occurred ? He 
could not decide. Apparently, Henrietta imagined that his 
mother did, by the observation which she had made at 
dinner. Then his father must be conscious of everything. 
Katherine must have told all. Were Lord Montfort*s 
family in the secret ? But what use were these perplexing 
enquiries ? It was certain that Henrietta was to be his 
bride, and that Mr. Temple had sanctioned their alliance. 
There could be no doubt of that, or why was he there ? 

At length the gentlemen rose, and Ferdinand once more 
beheld Henrietta Temple. As he entered, she was crossing 





the room with some music in her hand, she tras a mome^ 
alone. He stopped, he would have spoken, but his lij 
would not move. * ' a^ 

* Well,* she said, * are you happy ?\ M 

*My head wanders. Assure me that it is all Tznie,' 
murmured in an agitated voice. 

' It is all true ; there, go and speak to Lady Armina 
am as nervous as you are.* 

Ferdinand seated himself by his mother. 

' Well, Ferdinand,* she said, * I have heard wonderfU 

things.' ''• 


* And I hope they have made you happy, mother ? * * ^ 
' I should, indeed, be both unreasonable and ungrateiol 

if they did not ; but I confess to you, my dear child, I ant 
even as much astonished as gratified.* 

* And my father, he knows everything ? ' 
'Everything. But we have heard it only from Lord 

Montfort and Katherine. We have had no communication 
with anyone else. And we meet here to-day in this extra- 
ordinary manner, and but for them we should be completely 
in the dark.' 

* And the duchess ; do they know all ? ' 

* I conclude so.' 

* *Tis very strange, is it not ? ' 

* I am quite bewildered.' 

* mother ! is she not beautiful ? Do you not love her ? 
Shall we not all be the happiest family in the world ? ' 

* I think we ought to be, dear Ferdinand. But I have 
not recovered from my astonishment. Ah, my child, why 
did you not tell me when you were ill ? ' 

* Is it not for the best that affairs should have taken the 
course they have done ? But you must blame Kate as 
well as me ; dear Kate ! * 

* I think of her,' said Lady Armine ; * I hope Kate will 
be happy.' 

! j^t" OB ft aofa opposite, and 
.- wilh tlw duchess, who had 
I'D tnoneians, begaa shftkmg 
i'<nnnr which Eigiiified her 

1 :<p[ii««ich her. 

i t rdinajiil, seating himself by 

(I her ladysllip- 

Bit yourself. Well, I like dis- 
Q it from the first, 
I like true love, and I have left 
her 9U m; ohina in mf will.' 

' I am enre ihe legatee is very fortunate, whoever she 

' Ah, you rogue, yon know very well whom. I mean. Ton 
are saucy ; you never had a -warmer friend than myself. I 
always admired yon ; yon have a great many good qualities 
and a great many bad ones. You always were a little 
saucy. But I like a little apice of sauciness ; I think it 
takes. I hear you are great friends with Connt Thing- 
abob ; the Count, whose grandfather I danced with seventy 
years ago. That is right ; always have distinguished 
friends. Never have fools for fireuds ; they are no nse. 
'I suppose he is in the secret too P ' 

'Really, Iddy Bellair, I am in no secret. Ton quit« 
excite my curiosity.' 


'Well, I can't get anything out of ja^ Iwo thnt. How- 
ever, it all iiuppeiied at my iionse, tha(f-C«Jl't he denied. J^ 
tell yon what I will do; 1 ^Ul (five _yr' i^l a diiteer, A^T 
then the ivorld will be quite ' trtsin toni nia<1i' iLe I'lalo'^ ' 

Lady Ai'minp joineci thtti, aJdF^, ■' ■ ■ ■■ 
portanity of utfocting his e^capv to tJh)t 

' I suppose IlL'iirictta has found Iitr - •" 
whispered KailierinB to her cousin. ^ I 

' Dear Katheriiie, renlly if yoo arc so tualfcons, J fJ 
punish yon,' said Ferdinand. 

'Well, tho comudy is nearly crncladed. We ehuliy 
hands, and the curtain will drop.V ' rf I 

'And I hope, in your opinion, lot an unsaqc^fQl p-i-- 
formance ? ' . 

' Why, I certainly ciinnot qaaiTol Tith (j|h catastropie ' | 
said Miss Gratidison. tt } 

In the tnt'antiint;, the Count Uirabol haddAined po38D>^- 
sion of Mr. TL-mple, and lost no oppo; 'junitJTf confirming 
every favouralile view which that genMeman had been in- 
flnenced by Lord Montfort to take of Ferdinand and his 
conduct. Mr. Temple was quite convinced that his daaghter 
must he very happy, and that the alliance, on the whole, 
wonid be productive of every satisfaction that he had ever 

The evening drew on ; carriages were announced ; guests 
retired ; Ferdinand lingered ; Mr. Temple was nshering 
Lady Bellair, the last gnest, to her carriage ; Ferdinand and 
Henrietta were alone. They looked at each other, their 
eyes met at the same moment, there was bat one mode of 
satisfactorily terminating their mutual embarrassments; 
they sprang into each other's arms. Ah, that wasamoment 
of rapture, sweet, thrilling, rapid ! There was no need of 
words, their souls vaulted over all petty explanations ; upon 
her lips, her choice and trembling lips, he sealed his grati- 
tude and his devotion. 

A ipvfi STORY. 461 

Thftsonnd of footstepg waa Injard, the agitated Henrietta 
niailaier escajfa ty an opposite entrance, .Mr. Tenjple 
retltU^ied, ie jfet Captain >,.Tiiine with his hat, Bjid en- 
^pinfl.W# ;the/J;aTiBttaK-^ .etired; and when Ferdinand 
^-'■vwerwr' tj^ftnative,,wislied him good night, and 

Fast with them to-morrow. 



K kind reader will ^ilj comprehend that from the happy 
jpu./ we haw jag* Miticed, Ferdinand Armine waa aeldoiu 
f atisent ftoiivrroff^f/Tor-sqnare, or from the flociety of Heu- 
; rietta Tianple. Tuey both uf them wore so happy that 
they BOOH OTBrcame any httio emharrassment which their 
novel sitaation night first oceaBion them. In this effort, 
however, they wt're greatly encouraged by the calm de- 
meanour of Lord Montfort, and the complacent carriage of 
bis intended bride. Tbe world wondered and whispered, 
marvelled and hint«d, bnt nothing disturbed Lord Mont- 
fort, and Katherine had the skill to silence milleiy. Althongh 
it waa settled that the rcBpectiTe marriagea ehonid take 
place as soon as possible, tbe settlements necessarily occa- 
sioned delay. By the application of bis frmded property, 
and by a charge npon bis Yorkshire estates, Mr. Temple 
paid off the mortgagea on Armine, which, with a certain 
life-charge in his own favoor, was settled in strict entail 
npon the issue of hia daughter. A certain portion of the 
income was to be set aside annually to complete the castle, 
and until that edifice waa ready to receive them, Ferdinand 
and Henrietta were to live with Mr. Temple, principally at 
Ducie, which Mr. Temple had now purchased. 

In apit«, bowerer, of the lawyers, the eventful day at 

462 HiCN'RISm 

length arrived. Eotii happy couple*' 
sume time and in the E&me place, 
fbrmed the ceremouy. Lord land Lndy 
for a Beat in Snesos, hclongiag U> \pip 
and Henrietta repaired to Armine ; "^ie 
hie lady paid a vi^it to Mr. Tem[^ la 
Glastonbury fonnd himaelf once more SdIu 
Lancashire with tLo duke and dachoM- 

Once more at Armiue ; wandering OM^ ai-nv ic»^'"tLi 
the old pleasannce ; it wa,^ so stniii(,'a and swift, tiJit 
Ferdinand and Henrit-tUi almost begun ba bcli 
well that the conrse of their true Ian ItS'l for kraoniei^ 
not run so smoothly aa at present, and they feU tWt the* 
adversity had renderfd them even niAiw sen.^iUe ef theii' 
ilhmitable bliss. And the wootla of Dncie, th^iere not 
foi^otten; nor,lefetof all, the old fni-iiihoii» that Bad been 
his shelter, Certaiuly they were tlie happiest. -JB^Ie 
ever lived, and though some years have now passed sinfo 
these events took place, custom has not sullied the bright- 
ness of their love. They have no cares now, and yet both 
have known enough of sorrow to make tbem rightly ap- 
preciate their unbroken and nnbounded blessings. 

When the honeymoon was fairly over, for they would 
neither of them bate a jot of this good old-&shioned privi- 
lege. Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Aroiine retnrned to the Place, 
and Glastonbury to his tower ; while Mr. Temple joined 
them at Ducie, accompanied by Lord and Lady Montfort. 
The autumn also brought the Count Mirabel to slaughter 
the pheasants, gay, brilliant, careless, kind-hearted as ever. 
He has ever remained one of Ferdinand's most cherished 
friends ', indeed, I hardly think that there is any individual 
to whom Ferdinand is more attached. And after all, as 
the Count often observes, if it had not been for Ferdinand's 
scrapes they would not have known each other. Nor wsa 
Lord Catchimwhocan passed over. Ferdinand A rmine was 


A LOVE STOKY, , 463 

ni tie mtui t^ipieglect a friend or to forget a good service ; 
aQuie hiis coi jerred on that good-riatnred, though BOme- 
whatJniprorid it, yonng nobleman, more substantjal kind- 
neaa^ao tke r .oitatity which is ahva_vs cheerfully extended 
to ■m, ' "W iH^pdinand repaid Mr. Bond Sharpe hia 
PttJfa bani I pounds, he took cai'e that the interest 
sEosM appea, >^_ the shape of a golden vase, which is now 
jiotliB lea.=t> . irgeous ornament of th»t worthy's splendid 
ideboard. T'ik deer hare appeared iQo again in the park 
I Armine, and many a haunch smokes on the epicnrean 
B of Clerelaud-raw. 

kiy BeDair is aa lively as ever, and bids fair to amuse 
is Jong as the famooa CounteBS of I)esm.ond, 

■ Who li -od to the ago of a hnndred and ten, 
.\iid dioiVby a fall from a cherry tCM then ; 
"What a biEky old girl '. 

In her anttunl progresses through the kingdom she never 
omits laying every establishment of the three fomilies, in 
whose fortunes she was so uneipectedly mixed up, under 
coutribation. As her ladyship persists in asserting, and 
perhaps now really believes, that both matches were the 
result of her matrimonial craft, it would be the height of 
ingratitude if she ever covld complain of the want of a 
hearty welcome. 

In the daily increasing happiness of hia beloved daughter, 
Mr. Temple has quite forgotten any little disappointment 
which he might once have felt at not having a dnke for a 
Bon-iu-Iaw, and such a dnke aa his valued friend. Lord 
Montfbrt. But Ferdinand Armine is blessed with so sweet 
a temper, that it is impossible to live with him and not love 
him ; and the most cordial intimacy and confidence anbsist 
between the father of Henrietta Temple and hia son-in-law. 
From the aspect of public afiaira also, Mr. Temple, thongh 
he keeps this thought to himself, is inclined to believe that 



a coronet may yet grace the brow of Li;- <iiB' 
the barony of Armme may U' ' ' ^ ' 
passinff of the memorable Act "t 
came the representative of his cii 
and iuitaential member of the Hoa^e of ' 
the reform, Mr. Armine was a-Ifw retur... 
sitaate near the duke's pi'iucipal iu.<at, .<<i 
Montfort and Mr. Armiiie both adhecn Ur • ■ 
of their ftuniUes, they have bott also, i.. 
manner, abstained from votingon the ajiju . 
and there is little donbt tlmt they will niTinia.ieiy i^u 
that British and national lidminist ration wliioh Provi 
has doubtless in store fur these o\itroged am. diattaatol 
realms. At least this is Mr. Temple' 
is also in the House, and an-U entirely \'B^' d S^'ey. 
The Montforts and the younger ArminebCOrntiive, wrong 
mutual visits and a town rnsiiipnce during tho Session, to 
pasB the greater part of their lives together; tltey both 
honestly confess that they are a littl« ia lovo with each 
other's wives, but this only makes their society more agree* 
able. The family circle at Armine has been considerably 
increased of late ; there is a handsome yonng Armine who 
has been christened Glastonbury, a circumstance which 
repays the tenant of the tower for all his devotion, and 
this blending of his name and memory with the illnatrioua 
race that baa so long occupied his thoughts anf hopes, is 
to him a source of constant self-congratulation. The future 
Sir Glastonbury has also two younger brothers quite worthy 
of the blood, Temple and Digby ; and the most charming 
sister in the world, with lai^e violet eyes and long dark 
lashos, who b still in arms, and who bears the hallowed 
name of Henrietta. And thus ends our Lovz Stokt. 

^ntliiwoati i Co., iViiUm, Si